Something to remember me by
by dust on the wind
Summary: When love of one's country takes precedence, someone is bound to get hurt. It's part of the price. But sometimes the price is higher than expected...
1. Chapter 1

_I do not own any of the characters from the series Hogan's Heroes. However, I claim ownership of any original characters appearing in this story._

* * *

Of all the places to be caught out by an Allied bombing raid, the road running past the benzene plant outside Hammelburg had to be one of the worst. General Wolfert's driver was both competent and experienced; he had been on the general's staff since the old days in Poland, and knew how to cope with driving conditions so adverse as to be almost suicidal. But lack of familiarity with the area meant that he had no idea where to take cover, and in this situation, taking cover was a necessity.

In the back seat, the general turned to the woman who had accompanied him to Paris, just as she had travelled everywhere with him for the past three years. "Don't be frightened," he murmured. "We will be off the road soon."

"I know," she answered. Her voice, though soft enough to be almost inaudible, was quite steady. She had excellent nerves, and in all the time they had been together, she had never once lost her composure. Sometimes he wished she would.

The driver drew over to the side of the road, close to the trees. "_Herr General_, I think we must try for the _Luftstalag_," he said. "It is not far, and it will be safer there than anywhere else."

"Very well. As quickly as you can," Wolfert replied.

The car had scarcely started moving again, when a massive blast, somewhere to the left of the road, almost sent the vehicle careering off the road. The two passengers were thrown about as the driver fought for control, and a low cry broke from the woman. The driver turned in his seat. "_Ist alles in Ordnung, Herr General?_"

"Drive on," the general ordered curtly. He did not ask where she was hurt, just put his arm around her and drew her close, so she could rest against him. She did not resist, but nor did she respond as he smoothed back her hair, and gently kissed her forehead.

Their arrival at Stalag 13 was enough to bring the camp Kommandant hurrying from his quarters, as well as attracting the attention of the prisoners. "Big shot just turned up," said Carter, who was watching the door while the other men prepared the latest batch of Allied airmen for evacuation. "General. SS."

Colonel Hogan joined him at the door, waving the others back. "Keep working. We have to get these guys out tonight."

"If that bombing doesn't end soon, they won't be going anywhere," observed Newkirk, as he fitted a jacket for one of the airmen, while LeBeau stitched the shoulder seam on a shirt for the same man.

"It's not as bad as that. This is just a daylight hit and run, should be over by lights out." Hogan spared a glance in the direction of the bombing. "They're after the benzene plant, to the north of here."

"Gee, I was sort of hoping I'd get first crack at that," grumbled Carter. "I've got a new kind of explosive I wanted to - Hey, the general's got a friend. A lady friend."

As LeBeau and Newkirk both started towards the door, Hogan turned them away again. "Just get those guys ready. Nothing to see here."

"That's easy for you to say," muttered LeBeau, going back to work. "You know how long it's been? Even just to look would be..."

Carter had no hesitation in talking over the top of this. "Gosh, it looks like she's hurt. Who do you think she is, Colonel?"

"Not his wife." Hogan tilted his head. "Generals don't buy furs like that for their wives, only for their mistresses. But I'm more interested in the general."

"Colonel, you've been too long in this line of work," observed Newkirk.

Hogan grinned. "Okay, she's a woman. Not a bad looking woman, if you like skinny redheads. But a general arriving unannounced at Stalag 13 - that's really interesting."

Kinch looked up from the identity papers he was working on. "Probably got caught out when the bombing started," he suggested. "That might be how the lady got hurt. What's wrong with her, Carter?"

"Looks like it's her arm," said Carter. "But she's walking okay. If they go into the office, maybe we could listen in...no, they're heading straight for Klink's quarters. You know, we really ought to have that bugged as well."

"So we can eavesdrop on Klink when he has his own lady friends in? No, thanks. I'll pass," remarked Newkirk, and Carter snickered.

"Do you recognise him, Colonel?" asked Kinch.

"No, I haven't seen him before." Hogan pondered for a minute. "LeBeau, you got any more strudel? As soon as Schultz comes back out of Klink's quarters, go and see what you can get out of him."

"_Oui, mon Colonel_," replied LeBeau. He threw his work down onto the table, and went to fetch the apple strudel.

"Oi, what about that bleedin' shirt, LeBeau?" Newkirk called after him.

"You can finish it," LeBeau replied over his shoulder.

It was never difficult getting Schultz to stop and chat, as long as strudel took part in the conversation. The hard part for LeBeau was always getting away from Schultz and back to the barracks, and that usually didn't happen until the plate was empty. On this occasion, he was gone for almost half an hour.

"General Wolfert," LeBeau reported, as soon as he got back inside. "Something to do with intelligence, according to Schultz. He is returning to Berlin from Paris. Kinch was right - they only stopped here because of the air raid. The woman is French," he added, scowling. "Supposed to be his interpreter."

"Yeah, sure she is," said Hogan, with a sceptical grin. "Who is she?"

"Schultz couldn't tell me her name, but he said Wolfert's frantic about her getting injured. Klink's sent into town for a doctor. He's turned his quarters over to them, he'll be sleeping in the VIP hut tonight."

Hogan deliberated for a few seconds. "Well, we might as well take advantage of an unplanned visit. Kinch, when you radio London tonight, see what they can tell you about Wolfert. Who's on housekeeping detail tomorrow?"

"Me and LeBeau, Colonel," said Newkirk.

"Have a look around while you're there. I want to know if Wolfert's got anything interesting with him - documents, code books, plans, anything at all. And if you can keep it civil, LeBeau, it wouldn't hurt to have a word with the interpreter."

LeBeau gave him a dark, brooding look. He had never succeeded in overcoming his violent hatred of collaborators, although he was usually able to suppress the outward signs of his disgust. But Hogan wasn't worried. If there was one thing he was certain of, it was that LeBeau could be trusted to keep his head.


	2. Chapter 2

The information obtained overnight from headquarters was scant.

"They don't have a lot on Wolfert," explained Kinch, accepting a mug of coffee from LeBeau. "Like Schultz said, he's supposed to be in intelligence, but he doesn't appear to have any links to the usual agencies. Seems like he's something of a one-man show, involved in something really hush-hush. Our people have been trying to get a line on him for some time, but no luck so far."

Hogan nodded thoughtfully. "Well, today could be their lucky day. What about the interpreter?"

"London's got nothing on her at all," replied Kinch. "It's like she's a ghost. If we had a name, I could try to get a message relayed to Dubois in Paris, and see if he can find out anything."

Hogan considered, then shook his head. "Too risky. For now, we'd better work with what we've got. Which is nothing."

"Well, we can soon fix that," said Newkirk. "Now, Colonel, I was just thinking, perhaps it might be better if I had a chat to her, instead of LeBeau. Hands across the sea, and all that, you know."

"No Frenchwoman would give you a second glance, Newkirk," remarked LeBeau sourly.

Carter, once again on door duty, turned his head. "Well, I don't know about that," he said. "She can't be that picky, can she? I mean, she's with that general, after all. You got to admit, even Newkirk's a step up from that." He resumed his surveillance of the compound, happily unconscious of the dirty looks directed at him.

"Leave her to LeBeau, Newkirk," said Hogan. "You just look around for anything of interest, and work out how to get your hands on it. LeBeau, you see what you can do with the interpreter. And be nice."

It seemed, when the housekeeping detail arrived at the Kommandant's quarters, as if neither man would be called upon to be nice. General Wolfert was finishing a late breakfast; whatever branch of the intelligence service he was attached to, it was pretty clear that early hours weren't enforced. Klink was in attendance, but the interpreter was apparently sleeping in. Schultz, in charge of the work party, took up a position at the kitchen door, ready to dispose of any leftovers; they didn't run to fresh rolls with real butter and marmalade in the mess hall.

As he set to work with the duster, Newkirk gave the general a casual once-over. A good-looking man, Wolfert; probably in his late forties, not overly tall but well-made, with a slightly Mediterranean look about him. He was tolerating Klink's usual blatherings with fortitude, but his attention was diverted when the work party appeared.

"So, you use the prisoners as unpaid servants, Klink," he remarked.

"Legitimate service, I assure you, _Herr General_," replied Klink effusively, not sure whether Wolfert approved or not.

"I have no doubt of that." Wolfert's gaze switched from Newkirk to LeBeau, and his eyebrows went up slightly. LeBeau, engaged in polishing the credenza, paid him no heed, and the general, after that one brief look, returned to his breakfast.

"I may have to impose upon your hospitality for another day or two, Kommandant," he said. "The doctor advised against continuing on to Berlin until my interpreter has had a chance to recover from the shock of last night's incident."

"General, it will be an honour." Klink was smiling, a bright, hysterical smile which fooled nobody. Wolfert had him well terrified. Newkirk suppressed a smirk, then turned his head as the bedroom door opened.

Hogan had been accurate enough in his description of the interpreter. She was a little too thin for beauty, and her hair, drawn back into a coil at the nape of her neck, was of a shade vivid enough to make Newkirk blink. Her skin, pale as is often the case with red hair, was generously scattered with little golden freckles. Her left arm was resting in a sling, from which a long, slender hand drooped on a wrist seemingly too slight to support the weight of the delicate silver bracelet which circled it.

Wolfert had risen to his feet as soon as she appeared. "Did you sleep well, my dear?" he asked, coming forward and taking her free hand in both of his own. The look in his eyes was intense enough to make Newkirk embarrassed at having inadvertently seen it; but she met it with no sign of reciprocation.

"Very well. _Merci_." She scarcely spoke above a whisper.

"Come, sit down and have something to eat," he urged anxiously.

She shook her head. "I am not hungry."

"But you must eat. Just to please me, Anne." Apparently Wolfert made no secret of the nature of his relationship with the woman. Regardless of the presence of the Kommandant, or even of the two prisoners, he caressed her cheek with a tender hand, then drew her to the table and made her sit down. She accepted a cup of coffee, but didn't so much as take a sip.

"Mademoiselle is particular about her food," Wolfert explained quietly to Klink. "In Paris, of course, I can call upon the best chefs to tempt her appetite, but here in Germany..."

Klink nodded sympathetically. "I understand, _Herr General_. But I think I can help. We have an excellent French chef in this very camp - in this very room, in fact."

_This could be handy_, thought Newkirk. He glanced at LeBeau, and almost dropped the feather duster. LeBeau was standing still, staring at the interpreter, with an expression of such bitter resentment that Newkirk had to stop himself from exclaiming aloud.

Klink completely failed to notice it. "LeBeau, you will prepare lunch for the General and his...and Mademoiselle." His voice faltered with embarrassment as he hastily corrected himself.

Even before LeBeau replied, Newkirk knew it wasn't going to be good; but it was worse than he could have imagined. Without taking his eyes off the interpreter, and speaking in English to ensure every person in the room understood him, LeBeau gave his answer:

"You must excuse me, Kommandant. I do not cook for whores."


	3. Chapter 3

For almost ten seconds, paralysis fell over the room.

The interpreter did not even look up. To all appearances she had either not heard LeBeau's words, or not understood. But Wolfert was in no doubt about their meaning. Disbelief held him immobile; then he strode forwards and grabbed the front of LeBeau's jacket. Without thinking, Newkirk intervened, gripping the general's arm.

_What the hell am I doing?_ The thought came just too late, and he wasn't about to let go. But he held his breath as Wolfert turned a scorching glare on him.

"Newkirk!" hissed Klink. "Unhand General Wolfert at once. This is an outrage. As for you, LeBeau..."

"Be quiet, Klink," said Wolfert. Then to Newkirk. "You. Stand aside."

Newkirk stepped back, holding up both hands apologetically. "Sorry, sir. But let's not do anything hasty, eh?"

Wolfert had already lost interest in him. He released LeBeau, who stood his ground, breathing hard. "What did you say this man's name was, Klink?" he asked.

"LeBeau, _Herr General_." The Kommandant's voice quavered.

"Ah." Wolfert's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Please, General, allow me to assure you, both these men will be punished severely for this," Klink went on, almost beside himself with nervous agitation. "Schultz, take them to the cooler at once. Solitary confinement. Indefinitely."

_LeBeau, what have you got us into?_ thought Newkirk, shooting a furious look at his mate.

"Wait," said Wolfert.

LeBeau was still looking past Wolfert, towards the woman. The general glanced at her as well. She remained quietly impassive, and almost unnaturally still. Wolfert turned his gaze back to LeBeau. "You will apologise to Mademoiselle Barallier at once."

LeBeau's expression grew even colder. "_Non_."

"LeBeau!" Klink's voice dropped half an octave from his normal pitch. Newkirk had to fight an impulse to add his own protest. But LeBeau pinched his lips together, and said nothing more.

"You need to learn some manners," observed Wolfert. "Klink, you mentioned solitary confinement? An excellent idea. Just the Frenchman."

"Yes, _Herr General_. At once, _Herr General_." Klink gestured to Schultz. "Take him away. Uh, excuse me, _Herr General_...what about Newkirk?"

"Deal with him however you choose." Wolfert turned away, and went to the woman, touching her shoulder, his eyes searching her face.

For a few seconds, Klink and Newkirk stared at each other in mutual bewilderment. Then the Kommandant pulled himself together. "Newkirk, you are restricted to barracks, until further notice. Schultz..." He looked around, but Schultz had already left with LeBeau.

"Never mind, sir. I'll see myself out," said Newkirk dryly; and taking advantage of Klink's agitation, he took himself off.

As he crossed the yard, he saw Kinch standing outside the barracks door, watching with startled dismay as Schultz escorted LeBeau to the cooler. "What happened?" he demanded, as soon as Newkirk was within earshot.

Newkirk held up his hands. "Ask LeBeau. I just work here."

He pushed past Kinch and went inside. Hogan, standing by the stove pouring coffee, glanced at him. "Well?"

"Not well at all, Colonel. LeBeau's in the cooler, and I'm restricted to barracks. And I have no idea why."

His description of the incident was short, precise, and forcefully expressed.

"That's not like LeBeau," observed Carter, who had listened with wide eyes. "I mean, he doesn't like collaborators - who does? - but he's usually nice to girls, even if they're on the other side. And even if she is... well, one of those kinds of women, he still shouldn't have said it."

"I think he knows her," said Newkirk. He had expended the worst of his ire in the telling. "And I'm not sure, but I got the feeling Wolfert knows LeBeau, or knows of him, anyway."

"That's just swell." If Newkirk had got past his first annoyance, Hogan's was still in the ascendant. "Can't you guys do a simple housekeeping job without getting into trouble? From now on, Carter's getting all the cleaning work around here."

"Gosh, Colonel, that's not very fair. I can get into just as much trouble as they do." protested Carter. "More, if I put my mind to it."

Hogan ignored him. "Did you manage to get a name for the lady?" he asked.

Newkirk's brow wrinkled as he tried to remember. "Barrier - Barreller - something like that."

His grasp of French pronunciation had never been good. Automatically, everyone turned to Kinch for enlightenment. He gave a shrug. "Don't look at me. I wasn't there."

Hogan sighed, and began pacing. "I'm going to have to talk to LeBeau. If he does know the interpreter, that might give us a line on Wolfert."

"Best of luck with that, Colonel," said Newkirk. "From what he said, I don't think they're exactly on friendly terms. And she didn't bat an eyelid. Cool as they come, that one."

"Well, I can only try." Hogan squared his shoulders and left the barracks.

Schultz had remained on guard duty at the cooler. "What are you doing here, Colonel Hogan?" he asked, as Hogan came down the stairs to the cells.

"I've come to see LeBeau," replied Hogan briskly, glancing past the sergeant's bulky form. Behind the bars, LeBeau was sitting on the low cot with which the cell was furnished. He met Hogan's eyes, his own bright with stubborn defiance.

"Wait a minute." Schultz stepped in front of Hogan, barring his way. "Do you have permission from the Kommandant?"

"Don't need the Kommandant's permission to see one of my men. Come on, Schultz, you know that."

But Schultz wasn't having any. "Please, Colonel Hogan. LeBeau was very rude to General Wolfert's friend. He is in a lot of trouble, and I would rather that it was only him."

Hogan nodded in acknowledgement, then pondered for a moment. "Okay, Schultz. Why don't you go ask Klink if I can have just a couple of minutes, to check that LeBeau's okay?"

"I can't leave the prisoner unguarded," Schultz protested. "If the Kommandant found out, it would be worth my life."

"I'll stay and watch him."

"_Nein_, Colonel Hogan, that would not do at all. You are not one of us. You are one of them. It would be wrong."

"What's the matter, Schultz? Don't you trust me?"

The colonel's expression of wounded dignity was perfectly judged. Schultz went straight to appeasement. "I did not mean to offend you, Colonel Hogan. Please, don't look at me like that. I will go and speak to the Kommandant at once. You stay here and guard the prisoner." He started off, then turned back anxiously. "You won't talk to him, will you?"

"Scouts' honour," replied Hogan

As soon as Schultz was out of sight, he walked quickly over to the cell. "Good thing I never joined the Scouts," he remarked. "You okay, LeBeau?"

"_Oui, Colonel_," replied LeBeau, reddening under the colonel's scrutiny.

"Right, talk fast. Who is she?"

"Her name is Anne-Marie Barallier." LeBeau paused, registering the slight expression of perplexity on Hogan's face, interpreted it correctly, and spelled out the surname. "She was born in Beauvais, north of Paris. Her father was a magistrate, but he died, leaving some kind of scandal and very little else, so she moved into the city, and got a job as a secretary. There was a café, close to the Gare d'Orsay - _Le Rossignol_. She used to have lunch there some days. The owner was a friend of mine, and his wife got sick, so I helped out in the kitchen. That was how we met."

He fell silent, his eyebrows drawn in.

"What happened?" asked Hogan after a few moments.

LeBeau gave a short, bleak laugh. "What do you think happened? I kept working there, even when Pierre's wife got better. For half a year, I was the happiest man in Paris. Then it all fell apart."

"She threw you over?"

"No, _mon Colonel_. It was worse than that." LeBeau tilted his head back against the wall. "Have you heard of François Bloch?"

"Vaguely rings a bell," said Hogan. "He ran some kind of fascist organisation, didn't he?"

"_Le Marteau_. It means 'The Hammer'. They made a name for themselves in the south by setting fire to a synagogue in Pontvallon, and trying to assassinate the mayor of Joubelet-les-Bains. Then they came to Paris, where they bombed a police station in the fourteenth _arrondissement_."

"Yeah, I heard about that. They arrested Bloch a couple of days later."

"At his apartment, with a woman," added LeBeau. His voice was almost toneless, and cut like a knife. "The next day, her picture was in all of the papers. That was how..." He broke off, unable to continue.

Hogan waited for a few seconds, but he could hear the rattle of the main door into the building, indicating that Schultz was back from his errand. "That was how you found out?" he asked.

Schultz's arrival, huffing and full of reproach, prevented LeBeau from answering. But the coldness of his expression faltered, just for a second, and that was answer enough.

"Colonel Hogan - oh, why do I let you talk me into these things?" grumbled Schultz. "The Kommandant nearly ate me alive. He says nobody is to speak to LeBeau, not for any reason whatsoever. So please, Colonel Hogan, now you have seen him, and you know he is all right, go back to the barracks, and don't come around causing me any more trouble."

"All right, Schultz, I'm going," said Hogan, with a final glance at LeBeau. He didn't even try to argue the point. For now, he had all the information he needed.


	4. Chapter 4

"How's LeBeau doing, Colonel?" asked Carter, holding the door open for Hogan as he returned to the barracks. "Is he okay?"

"He's got nobody to blame but himself if he isn't," remarked Newkirk, without looking up from the game of solitaire he had laid out on the table. "I don't suppose he let on what all the fuss was about?"

"Well, you know how he is about collaborators," replied Hogan. He wasn't about to broadcast LeBeau's personal affairs without permission, not even to his closest friends. Especially not to his closest friends.

He could tell nobody was satisfied with the answer, but he didn't give any of them a chance to go on the attack. "Kinch, the interpreter's name is Barrel...Barra...hold on, I'll write it down for you." He scribbled the details in the notebook Kinch handed him. "She comes from Beauvais, originally. Her father was a magistrate, and there's some sort of scandal about him, but LeBeau didn't say what it was. I doubt London's got anything on her, so you better try Dubois as well. And while you're at it, ask them for any information they have on a fascist organisation called The Hammer_._ She may have been involved with their leader, François Bloch, some time before the war."

Kinch regarded him seriously for a moment; then he nodded, and without a word headed for the tunnel.

"So how are we gonna get Louis out of the cooler?" said Carter.

"We're not. Keep it down." Hogan held up both hands at the chorus of protest. "I'm no happier about it than anyone else, but right now I don't want him getting into another confrontation with Wolfert. He might not get off so lightly next time."

"Colonel's right, you know," remarked Newkirk, after a moment's thought. "The bugger was about ready to do him in. He sees LeBeau wandering round, he might start having second thoughts."

"Exactly. For now, LeBeau's safer where he is."

"Guard coming." Carter closed the door and retreated to his bunk, where he quickly occupied himself with sewing a button on a shirt. A few seconds later, Corporal Langenscheidt sidled in. With his usual timidity, he hesitated on the threshold, waiting to be noticed. Then, as the prisoners ignored him, he cleared his throat. They still ignored him. He seemed to be considering a strategic withdrawal; but he steeled himself, and inched forward. "If you please, Colonel Hogan..."

"Oh, hi, Langenscheidt," said Hogan, with a half-glance over his shoulder. "Sorry, didn't hear you come in. What's up?"

"The Kommandant wants to see you. If you have nothing more important to do, that is," said Langenscheidt deprecatingly.

Hogan sighed. "Listen, Schultz - I mean, Langenscheidt - I'm a busy man. Tell Klink to contact my secretary and make an appointment."

"You have a secretary?" Langenscheidt peered around the barracks.

"Well, no, but with everything I've got going on right now, I should have. Say, do you think I could borrow Fräulein Hilda for a couple of hours in the afternoons?"

"Uh..."

"You know, that's a really good idea, Langenscheidt," said Newkirk. "How'd you ever come up with it?"

"I - I didn't - I mean..."

"Yeah, it's a real brainwave." Hogan straightened up. "In fact, I'll go right now and see what the Kommandant thinks. But don't worry, Langenscheidt. I'll make sure you get the credit for it."

He strode briskly out into the compound. Langenscheidt stood paralysed for a few seconds, then hastened after him, bubbling over with protest.

"You know, it does seem kind of mean to pick on Langenscheidt," said Carter. "I mean, for a Kraut, he's not so bad."

Newkirk rolled his eyes. "Andrew, don't you start going soft on him. The goons have to be kept in their place, even the halfway decent ones. Not that there's many of those."

He gathered up his cards and started shuffling them. "You know, there's something the colonel's not telling us about LeBeau and that bird."

"What do you mean?" asked Carter.

"Look, Carter, I was there. I saw how he looked at her," said Newkirk. "He knows her. If you ask me, there's been something doing with the pair of them, some time back before the war, and it didn't end happily."

Carter pondered, then shook his head. "Colonel Hogan said she was mixed up with that guy Bloch before the war. Louis wouldn't take up with the kind of girl who hung around with blackshirts. He just wouldn't."

"Not if he knew about it. But if he didn't, and then he found out...well, you know LeBeau, he wouldn't take kindly to it."

"Yeah, I guess he wouldn't...oh, darn it!"

Newkirk glanced at him, and his serious mood dissipated into helpless laughter. Carter had finished sewing on his button. The shirt was now dangling from his hand, firmly stitched to his glove.

Kommandant Klink was pacing the floor of his office when Hogan arrived, with Langenscheidt, still remonstrating, on his heels. The corporal's voice squeaked into silence when he realised where they were; then he straightened to attention. "Colonel Hogan is here, as you ordered, _Herr Kommandant_."

"Not before time," snapped Klink. "Dismissed, Langenscheidt."

With a final pleading look at Hogan, Langenscheidt took himself off; and Klink hardly waited until the door was closed before he fired his first shot. "Hogan, I have no doubt Newkirk couldn't wait to report to you about what happened earlier. Do you have any idea how much trouble LeBeau has made for himself? And more importantly, for me?"

"Well, sir, I can understand how you'd be disappointed..."

"I'm not disappointed, Hogan. I'm simply furious," retorted Klink, continuing his perambulation. "That cockroach insulted a member of the staff of a German general - and such an insult, too!"

"Actually, I have to admit I was a little surprised," admitted Hogan frankly. "But you know how emotional LeBeau is. After all, this isn't the first time he's been carried away by his love for France."

"Carried away. I will have him carried as far as Poland," said Klink, glowering. "He can love France all he likes, from the other end of Europe."

Hogan felt himself starting to sweat. Not many escaped prisoners from camps in Poland made it as far as Stalag 13, but those few who did had plenty to say about the conditions there. Whatever it took, he had to protect LeBeau from that. It wasn't going to be easy; Klink was in too much of a rage to be amenable to either pleading or negotiation. The only option was psychology, and there wasn't time to think it through. He was going to have to wing it.

"Well, thank goodness for that," he said. "I gotta say, Kommandant, I didn't expect you to be so lenient. There I was, thinking you were really going to throw the book at him."

Klink stopped in his tracks. "What do you mean, Hogan? You think it's lenient, sending a prisoner to one of the camps in the East? You don't know a thing about it."

"Well, I guess I don't. But I was so sure you'd want to see to his punishment yourself, instead of sending him off to some other camp where he'll start all over with a clean slate. And you know, tough as some of the other Kommandants are, there's only one Iron Colonel." He paused, then added helpfully, "That's you, sir."

"The Iron Colonel," murmured Klink; as always, that phrase worked on him like a charm.

"You know, I can't tell you how glad I am that under that steely exterior, you're a bit of a softy," added Hogan. "I only hope the rest of the prisoners don't find out. I'd rather have LeBeau stay right here at Stalag 13 and take what's coming to him, than see my men lose respect for you."

"Well...well, you know, Hogan, nothing has been decided yet," said Klink, after a pause. "LeBeau's transgression certainly merits severe punishment, and I'm not at all convinced that it wouldn't be better for him to receive that punishment right here in Stalag 13."

"Darn it, when will I learn to keep my big mouth shut?" muttered Hogan.

Klink smirked, with that particular gleam of spite which always appeared when he thought he'd got one over on Hogan; but before he could gloat, the connecting door to the Kommandant's private quarters opened, and General Wolfert appeared. "Klink, I must request the use of your office safe to store some documents..." He broke off, as he realised Klink wasn't alone.

"By all means, sir," replied Klink, folding instantly into submission. "It's right here." Noticing that Wolfert was regarding Hogan curiously, he went on quickly, "_Herr General_, allow me to present Colonel Hogan, senior prisoner of war officer. I was just informing Colonel Hogan of the punishment I have decided on for the prisoner LeBeau. Now, in view of..."

"Is that so?" Wolfert interrupted. "But, Klink, that is not your decision to make."

"It isn't?" faltered Klink.

"No. " Wolfert's eyes turned back to Hogan, challenging him to object. "The man may be your prisoner, Klink, but his offence was against a member of my personal staff, and therefore, against me. So the privilege of teaching him a lesson in good manners will be mine."


	5. Chapter 5

"Of course you will set LeBeau's punishment, _Herr General_. That goes without saying," said Klink, unconsciously wringing his hands, and glancing nervously from Wolfert to Hogan, and back again.

Hogan's response came at almost the same moment. "Now, wait one minute. I protest. LeBeau is a prisoner of the Luftwaffe, not the SS, so the case clearly falls under Kommandant Klink's jurisdiction..."

"Oh, that doesn't matter," interrupted Klink. "I'm not a man to stand on protocol. Believe me, _Herr General_, I don't believe there can be any objection..."

"Oh, yes, there can," Hogan interjected. He paused for a moment, choosing his next words with care. "With respect, General, I don't think you'll be able to judge the matter impartially. On account of the implied insult to yourself, of course."

Somehow, he managed to keep his voice neutral, but from the heightened colour in Wolfert's face, he knew the shot had gone home. Nevertheless, the general didn't lose his cool, and his reply was as controlled as Hogan's. "I see. Well, allow me to reassure you, Colonel. Whatever form of disciplinary action is imposed, I can promise you it will be neither more nor less than what is...shall we say, _appropriate_?"

"And you can't be more impartial than that," added Klink, making it abundantly clear where his support would fall.

Hogan was almost at a loss. He knew too little about Wolfert to find a line of attack. The general's only known weakness - his relationship with Anne-Marie Barallier - was clearly too dangerous a topic. All he could do was stall for time, keep Wolfert talking, and hope the guy would let something slip.

"General, I'm not sure what you would consider to be appropriate, under the circumstances," he said. "But let me spell it out for you. The terms of the Geneva Prisoner of War Convention protect LeBeau's right to a fair hearing. And as the senior prisoner of war officer, I have an obligation to report any breaches of the articles to the relevant authorities "

He didn't expect the Geneva Convention to cut much ice with Wolfert, and was surprised to see the muscles contract around the general's eyes, and a darkening of the colour in his face. He glowered at Hogan. "I am aware of the rules of lawful conduct, Colonel," he said, his voice slightly constricted. "It surprises me you would think it necessary to mention them."

"I thought I should drop a hint," replied Hogan, watching his reaction closely. "Just in case they'd slipped your mind."

Wolfert walked over to the window, turning his back on both Hogan and Klink. For half a minute he gazed out over the compound; and he had himself well in control again by the time he turned back. "While I cannot overlook such a shameful display of disrespect, I do not wish to give the contemptible wretch any excuse to complain of unfair treatment, nor am I anxious to have Mademoiselle Barallier's name dragged into an inquiry. I'm sure you would agree, she has suffered more than enough distress already over the whole distasteful affair." His eyes glittered as they fixed on Hogan. "Taking everything into consideration, I think it might be best if I leave the matter in your hands after all, Klink."

Klink's mouth fell open in astonishment; but he rallied quickly. "Certainly, _Herr General_. You can count on me to make an example of him. And may I just say how honoured I am..."

"I'm sure you are," Wolfert cut in. "Well, Colonel Hogan? Does this arrangement meet with your approval?"

Hogan didn't reply at once. He hadn't expected it to be so easy. It might be no more than lip service, of course; Wolfert could very easily step back in public, and still direct from behind the scenes. But the tightness around the general's mouth, and the stormy look in his eyes, gave indication of a man thwarted. He obviously didn't want to concede, but he'd done it anyway. Why?

"Hogan, the general asked you a question," said Klink. His voice sounded as if, somewhere in his lower abdomen, muscles he didn't even know he had were tightly clenched.

"As long as LeBeau gets fair treatment, I'm satisfied," replied Hogan. He was still watching Wolfert, trying to work the guy out, sure that Wolfert was doing the same by him.

Whether Klink was aware of this or not, his relief at the compromise was palpable. "Good. So if you're satisfied, and the general here is satisfied, and I'm satisfied, then we have nothing more to talk about until LeBeau's punishment is decided on. Dismissed, Hogan."

For a few seconds longer, Hogan and Wolfert maintained eye contact. The general was the first to look away; and having won that small victory, Hogan saluted, and withdrew. He didn't look back as he crossed the compound, but he felt certain Wolfert was watching him.

His return to the barracks was greeted with a barrage of anxious questions, but he went straight to his private quarters without stopping; and by the time Newkirk and Carter joined him, he was already plugging in the coffee pot which hid the receiver for the bug in the Kommandant's office.

"What's up, Colonel?" asked Newkirk.

"I'm not sure yet. LeBeau's safe for now, anyway," Hogan turned the speaker a little, but no sound came out. "Has someone been making coffee...oh, there you go."

A low clunk was heard, followed by Klink's voice. "There we are, _Herr General_, your papers are completely secure. Apart from myself, nobody has access to this safe."

Carter snickered. "Hear that, Newkirk? Now you're nobody."

Newkirk sent a steely glare at him. "You got that glove unpicked from your best shirt yet?" he began, but Hogan waved him into silence, as Wolfert had started speaking.

"Very good, Klink. My papers will remain in the safe until tomorrow morning. I have been speaking to my aide in Berlin, and he tells me the Führer has ordered me to present a briefing on my mission. He expects to see me tomorrow, at Berchtesgaden, where he is spending a few days."

"Berchtesgaden? Oh, that's a great honour - not that you don't deserve it, _Herr General..._"

Wolfert ignored the interjection, and kept talking. "I will leave at precisely six a.m. Unfortunately, my interpreter remains unwell as a result of yesterday's mishap." His voice dropped a little in pitch as he went on. "She has a somewhat delicate constitution. The doctor who saw her last night has recommended a few days of complete rest."

"You want her to stay here?"

"No, I do not," snapped the general. "Nor does she wish to remain behind. She insists she is well enough to accompany me, but she has a slight fever, and the long drive to the Obersalzburg would certainly be bad for her. I had considered driving her to Hammelburg, to one of the hotels, but owing to the confidential nature of my work, it would be inadvisable to risk advertising my presence in the area. I must therefore leave her with you."

"He doesn't sound happy about it," remarked Carter.

"I don't see why. All he's doing is leaving his fancy piece behind in a prison camp, with one of her old boyfriends just across the compound - where's the harm in that?" said Newkirk.

Hogan glanced at him. It hadn't taken long for Newkirk to start getting ideas. But now wasn't the time to take it up. Klink was already responding: "General, I will be most happy to extend the hospitality of my little Luftstalag..."

Wolfert cut him off. "All I want, Klink, is for Mademoiselle Barallier to be protected from any further incivility on the part of your prisoners. She is sleeping at the moment, and I don't wish her to be disturbed. You will place a guard at the entrance to your quarters, to keep her safe."

"Of course, _Herr General_. A very good idea, I was about to suggest it myself," replied Klink.

"Isn't it funny how he always has his best ideas just after someone else has come up with them?" said Hogan.

"Now, as you have this afternoon free," Klink went on, "might I have the pleasure of showing you around Stalag 13? You could tell the Führer all about it when you..."

"I never have a free afternoon, Klink," said Wolfert. "I will require the use of your office for the rest of the day, to prepare for tomorrow's meeting. You will have to work somewhere else."

"Oh, by all means. Never mind about me, _Herr General_. I can easily work out of the VIP quarters, or the officers' mess. Perhaps you'd like to join me there for lunch before you start work," suggested Klink. "I believe Corporal Hinkelmann is making _Gulasch_ today. Or I can have some brought over here for you, but I warn you, the smell does tend to linger. For hours. Sometimes for days."

There was a brief silence while the general considered the implications of this. "Yes, it would be best if I ate first," he said at last. "Once I start, I will not wish to be interrupted. Where is this officers' mess of yours?"

"Oh, it's on the other side of the camp," replied Klink. "I think you'll like it, _Herr General_, it has a fine view of..."

Klink's voice was cut off, as the door of the office closed; and Hogan unplugged the coffee pot. "Carter, go and see who's on duty outside Klink's office."

"What's on your mind, Colonel?" asked Newkirk, as Carter hastened out.

"Wolfert was ready to throw the book at LeBeau, but he backed down as soon as I mentioned the Geneva Convention. That probably means he's up to something he doesn't want anyone to know about," said Hogan. "Whatever he's got stashed in Klink's safe will probably give us an idea what he's got going on. So we have to get you in there with a camera, before Wolfert gets back from lunch. And we may not have a lot of time. That stew of Hinkelmann's doesn't encourage diners to linger."

"Hold on, Colonel. I'm restricted to barracks," Newkirk protested. "I can't go waltzing across the yard in full view of the goons."

Carter came back. "It's Langenscheidt," he reported.

"Good, that makes it easy," said Hogan. "Newkirk, go and change into German uniform, and make it fast."

"That still won't get me past Langenscheidt," Newkirk pointed out.

A gesture from Hogan dismissed the argument. "Langenscheidt won't be a problem. Carter, remember what you said earlier, about how you're just as good at getting into trouble as anyone?"

"Uh...yeah..." replied Carter slowly, his face falling as he guessed where this was leading.

Hogan grinned. "Well, we're about to find out how good you really are," he said.


	6. Chapter 6

Carter came out of the barracks bearing a bucket, a mop, and the attitude of a man nursing a grievance. In fact, had it been anyone else, it would have been easy to assume that something had really pissed him off.

He scuffed his way across the yard towards the Kommandantur, dumped the bucket under the tap and began to fill it with water, under the startled gaze of the perpetually anxious Langenscheidt.

"What are you doing?" asked the guard.

"Well, gee, Langenscheidt, what does it look like?" Carter turned off the tap. "I got lumbered with cleaning the office, seeing as how LeBeau and Newkirk weaseled out of it. Some guys'll do anything to get out of working. It's just not fair."

"You can not go in there. Nobody is to enter the building, by order of the Kommandant." Langenscheidt placed himself between Carter and the door.

"Oh, is that right?" snapped Carter. "Well, I got orders, too, pal. I got orders to march right in there, wash the floor, dust the filing cabinets and empty the waste basket, before Colonel Klink gets back from lunch. And when I got orders, boy, you can just bet they get done. So there."

He moved to one side, trying to bypass Langenscheidt, who immediately side-stepped to block him. Carter dodged the other way, but once again Langenscheidt got in his way. They danced back and forth a couple more times, then stopped, eyeballing each other in no friendly manner. Then Carter went for the left, and as Langenscheidt followed, he changed direction, diving to the right. Inevitably, they collided; the contents of the bucket splashed out, and both men fell back.

"Now look what you have done," said Langenscheidt. Most of the water had been repelled by his topcoat, but enough had soaked into the thin fabric of his trousers to make him very uncomfortable.

"Oh, shucks, I'm real sorry, Langenscheidt," Carter stammered, his temper giving way to embarrassed contrition. "I didn't mean to do that, honest." He gazed at his handiwork with apparent consternation. "Golly, you know what that looks like? It looks just like..."

"I know what it looks like." For once, Langenscheidt was seriously annoyed; he shook one leg, then the other. "_Ach, es ist kalt_!"

"Maybe you should go change, before you take a chill," suggested Carter.

Langenscheidt scowled at him. "Oh, _ja, ja_, and then you go in the office as soon as I have gone."

"Well, gee, I wouldn't do that, not behind your back. That wouldn't be right. Tell you what," said Carter, trying to be helpful. "Why don't you ask that guy over there to watch the door for you? He's not doing anything."

He jerked his head towards a lone guard, loitering at the end of the building. Langenscheidt wavered, unconsciously shaking his leg again. "_He! Kannst du ein paar Minuten Wache halten_?" he called at last

"_Ja, gerne_," replied the man in gruff tones, turning his head slightly without actually showing his face.

"_Vielen Dank_." Langenscheidt hastened off towards his barracks, while the other man took his post. Carter lingered at the bottom of the steps, watching until Langenscheidt was out of sight. Then he nodded to Langenscheidt's substitute.

"Okay, Newkirk, he's gone," he said.

Newkirk glanced around, then cautiously opened the door. "This'd be so much easier if we could use the bleedin' tunnel. Keep an eye out," he told Carter, and slipped inside.

He took the precaution, as soon as he reached the inner office, of closing the curtains. Then he opened the connecting door to Klink's private quarters, just enough to listen for any sounds of movement, but all was quiet.

"Right, let's get cracking, then," he murmured to himself.

The safe was an old friend, so familiar that on a good day Newkirk could open it, eyes closed, in ten seconds flat; although on those rare occasions when the Kommandant had the combination changed, it might take all of half a minute. Similarly, he knew everything inside well enough to be able to identify at a glance the item he was looking for. Not that it was difficult; a large black briefcase, taking up the whole of the lower shelf, was hard to overlook. He hauled it out, and took it over to the desk

He hadn't bargained for the secure combination lock fitted to the clasp. With an irritated click of the tongue, he set to work on it; but it was a quality piece of work, and robbed him of a few precious minutes, before he was finally able to open the case and make a start on the contents: a brown leather portfolio, its skin worn soft by years of use, and a handful of loose pages, mostly on official letterhead. They didn't look as if they contained much of importance, but he took the miniature camera out of his pocket and took pictures.

He went to the window and looked out before he started on the portfolio. Carter remained on watch, giving the steps a leisurely once-over with the mop as an excuse. Newkirk suppressed a smile, and opened the folder.

Two words greeted him, typed at the top of an otherwise blank sheet: _Projekt Termiten_.

It struck him that the German High Command must be running out of names for their tactical plans; from Operation Barbarossa to termites was something of a comedown. He sniggered softly, and turned the page.

"Oh, flippin' heck," he mumbled.

The next page, and all the rest, were covered minutely in careful, precise handwriting. But it was in no language Newkirk had ever seen. It wasn't even any alphabet he'd seen. To all appearances the folder contained sheet after sheet of meaningless symbols.

"Well, that's one for the codebreakers," he sighed, and started photographing.

He had just finished, when Carter's voice, shriller and louder than usual, made itself heard in the yard outside: "Boy, Langenscheidt, you sure weren't gone long."

"Why are you still here? And where is the man who was guarding the door?" demanded Langenscheidt.

"He just took off, a couple of minutes ago," replied Carter. "I guess he had something more important to do. Say, Langenscheidt, how'd you get changed so quick? Because I reckon it'd take me half an hour just to get all those buttons undone..."

He was making a valiant effort to hold Langenscheidt's attention, but he wouldn't be able to keep it up for long. Newkirk hastily replaced the contents of the briefcase, shoved it back into the safe, and spun off the combination. Then he went quickly and quietly through the outer office. If he was quick, and if Carter could keep Langenscheidt distracted for a few seconds longer...

"What is going on here?"

_Bugger!_

Apparently, impossible though it seemed, the food in the officers' mess had been worse than usual. Klink was already back, and from the sound of his voice, in no pleasant temper. "Langenscheidt, you should be at your post. Carter, why are you out of the barracks?"

"Well, Kommandant, I was just..."

"Never mind. Go about your business, and stay away from my office. And tell your fellow criminals that any prisoner found within twenty feet of this building will join LeBeau in the cooler."

"Y-yes, sir. Uh...are you going back into your office now, Kommandant? Only it never got cleaned this morning, and I know how much you hate working in a dirty office..."

If there was one thing about Carter that couldn't be faulted, it was his persistence. But it wasn't going to cut it today. Newkirk, hesitating at the door, heard the familiar querulous command, "Dismissed, Carter!" Then the sound of the Kommandant's boots on the wooden steps sent him into full retreat, back to the main office; and from there he took the only possible escape route: the door to Klink's quarters.

He barely made it in time, and he drew back, listening as Klink strode into the office. "...but believe me, General, the cook does very well with the materials available."

"I am sure he does, Klink," replied Wolfert. "And I have to admit, I am impressed. I cannot recall any occasion during my entire military career, even at the front, when I was faced with any meal bearing so little resemblance to food."

Newkirk didn't hang about. He had to get out of this before Wolfert decided to check up on his lady love. He turned away from the door; and froze on the spot, as his gaze fell on the slender figure of Wolfert's interpreter, standing at the door of Klink's quarters, staring at him.

* * *

Note: I extrapolated the estimate of Newkirk's speed at opening Klink's safe from _Oil for the Lamps of Hogan_, in which he manages to insert LeBeau into the safe in a surprisingly short time, and extract him again even faster.


	7. Chapter 7

"_Entschuldigung, Fräulein_." Newkirk pulled himself together. "I was just checking that everything was in order here."

For a few seconds, Anne-Marie Barallier continued her scrutiny, her eyes narrowing a little. "You were here earlier," she said.

"Me? No, I was on sentry duty. You must have me confused with someone else," replied Newkirk.

His voice had taken on a gravelly tone, as he tried to maintain his cover. But obviously she'd recognised him. Her lips thinned, and the soft pale eyelashes flickered as she answered him. "Do you take me for a fool? Or are you simply too foolish yourself to understand what you are doing?"

"_Bitte, Fräulein_..." he began.

She continued on as if he hadn't spoken. "Do you not realise that if he finds you here, he will have you shot? No matter whether you are a German soldier, or the British one he saw this morning, the result will be the same."

"I very much doubt it," muttered Newkirk; but his heartbeat sped up, as he remembered the miniature camera in his pocket. Wolfert might be anxious to keep his presence at Stalag 13 under wraps, but any hint of a breach in security would mean all bets were off. He needed to get out of there, urgently; and even as he arrived at that thought, the sound of footsteps from the other side of the door gave notice that "urgently" was an understatement.

"Come with me." Mademoiselle Barallier beckoned towards the bedroom door. "Quickly!"

_Oh, that's going to help_! thought Newkirk, but he had no choice. He followed her into the small, over-furnished room which Klink had turned over to his guests. The window might offer a chance of escape. He drew back the curtain slightly, then let it drop again. No good; a couple of goons were hanging around in plain sight.

He heard the door from Klink's office opening, and by pure reflex, he dived for the only place in the room where he wouldn't be seen. _And if Wolfert finds me hiding under his bed while his bird's in it, I can say goodbye to my bollocks before I face the firing squad_.

He eased himself around so he could see the doorway, and a moment later, a pair of highly polished boots came into sight; hesitated at the threshold, then walked across the faded rug to stand at the bedside, barely inches from Newkirk's nose.

For what seemed like eternity, Wolfert didn't move. Newkirk hardly drew breath; his skin prickled with sweat, and his stomach was churning. Then the woman sighed softly, and turned over.

"_C'est vous_," she murmured, after a few seconds.

"Forgive me, my dear," said Wolfert. "I didn't mean to wake you. Are you feeling better?"

"A little," she replied; then, after a pause, she added, "Thank you."

Wolfert sat on the edge of the bed, sending Newkirk's anxiety level up a few notches. "Does your arm still hurt?"

"No."

"Are you hungry?" asked the general. "I have to tell you, the food in this miserable place is an absolute disgrace. I am more than half inclined to send to the nearest town for a competent cook to come here and attend to your meals. I would much rather not leave you here, but I can't bear the thought of making you travel so far in the car while you are unwell. And of course, you understand that I cannot put off this meeting with the Führer."

For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. The bed creaked a little, as Wolfert leaned towards her; and Newkirk had a sudden urge to come out of hiding, make an excuse and scarper, in case things were about to get really uncomfortable. Then he heard Anne-Marie's soft, colourless voice: "I would like to sleep a little longer, if you do not mind."

"Of course." If he was chilled by her indifference, Wolfert had enough self-control to hide it. "I have work to do, so I will leave you until this evening. Sleep well, my darling."

He stood up, and went to the door, where he lingered briefly before turning on his heel. The boots vanished from sight, but Newkirk waited until the closing of the connecting door cut off the sound of Wolfert's footsteps, before he emerged cautiously from his refuge and crept as far as the doorway, listening. Then he looked back at the woman, sitting up on the bed.

"All right, love," he said, "what's your game?"

"I might ask you the same question." Her English was as fluent as her German, marked by no more than a trace of accent. "A British soldier in the morning, a German one after lunch. The _Wehrmacht_ recruiting process is obviously faster than I imagined."

"Oh, the Germans can move fast when they want to," he shot back. "Just ask the Poles. Or the French - only you already know all about that, right?"

A faint touch of colour rose to her cheeks; but she didn't take the bait. "Why are you here, and wearing these clothes?"

"Can't tell you. And if I could, I wouldn't," said Newkirk. "Suppose you tell me instead why you didn't turn me in to your boyfriend."

"I didn't want to," she replied.

"Oh, leave it out."

"It's true. You are a friend of - of someone I used to know. I do not want you to get into trouble."

"Oh, that's nice. I'm really touched." Newkirk gave a quiet, mirthless chuckle. "Warms the cockles of my heart. Shame you weren't that bothered about LeBeau, a couple of hours ago."

Her flush deepened, and she looked away. It was the nearest she'd come to showing any feeling, but all it did was increase Newkirk's anger. He went back to the window and turned back the edge of the curtain. The guards were still hanging about. Until they cleared off, he was stuck here, unless he took off through the tunnel entrance concealed in the next room; and he couldn't risk it. This sly piece of work might have saved his arse a few minutes ago, but he still didn't trust her as far as he could throw her.

A whisper, scarcely audible, reached him. "Is he well? Is he happy?"

Newkirk let the curtain fall. "Oh, happy's not the word. Life's just one long party. He's in a prison camp. How happy do you think he is? Listen, _Mademoiselle_." He placed a scornful emphasis on each syllable of the title. "You did me a favour. So thanks very much. But now do yourself one, and change the subject. Anything you might have had going on with Louis, it's well and truly over with."

"I know. But that doesn't mean I am not allowed to care about him." She met his eyes unflinchingly. "I could not speak this morning. The general has investigated every detail of my past. He knows about Louis. If I had shown even for a moment that I cared, then nothing could have saved him. Nothing."

"What did I just say?" Newkirk held up one finger. "One more word, and I might just forget that I'm supposed to be a gentleman. If you have to talk, find something else to talk about."

He resumed his surveillance of the prison yard, and for a couple of minutes the room lay under the heavy stillness of mutual antagonism. Then the woman sighed softly. "You are English, yes? From London?"

"My word, we are clever, aren't we?" he replied, without turning his head. The two guards were now looking towards the barracks, in apparent perplexity. A moment later, Carter came into sight, exhibiting every sign of agitation.

"I visited England once," Anne-Marie went on. "It was very pretty. Have you been to Kilmarnock?"

"What...? No, never been north of the Tyne. Not that it's any of your business." He shot a quick look at her. _Kilmarnock? What's she on about?_

Whatever Carter was telling the goons, it was working. They'd set off at a run, leaving their informant standing alone in the yard. It was the chance Newkirk was waiting for.

"Tell you what," he said over his shoulder. "If I ever go there, I'll send you a postcard. Because seeing who you've thrown your lot in with, there's no chance in the world you're ever going back."

He pushed the casement open, and hopped out; and a moment later, he was to all appearances just another guard on patrol, walking at a slow, even pace which didn't even hint at the turmoil going on inside his head. His brief encounter with the general's mistress had thrown him for a loop. He couldn't work her out. But he'd learned a bit more about her, and none of it made him like her any better.

Something had happened in the past between her and LeBeau; and Louis had ended up getting hurt. She had no right to care about him now. No right at all.


	8. Chapter 8

"Kilmarnock."

Newkirk and Kinch watched in silence as Hogan paced slowly from one end of the radio room to the other, then turned and went back again. His arms were folded, his brow furrowed.

Any minute they were expecting radio contact from London, with answers to the questions Kinch had transmitted earlier in the day. But right now, Hogan seemed more interested in the details of Newkirk's conversation with Anne-Marie Barallier.

"Kilmarnock," he said again. "You're sure that's what she said?"

"Well, that's what I heard, anyway," replied Newkirk. "It did seem odd, though. I mean, she could have said anything, or she could have just kept stumm. Instead, she suddenly starts talking about Kilmarnock. And while I'm sure it's a lovely town, considering it's in Scotland, I can't think of a single reason to go there. Apart from the whisky, that is, and even that you can get at any decent off-licence without ever leaving London. At least, you could before the war."

"It doesn't sound like the kind of place Mademoiselle would want to include, if she was touring the British Isles," remarked Kinch.

"No, that's what I thought," said Newkirk. "But she sounded as if she knew the place, and expected me to know about it as well. I can't work it out. What's so special about it?"

For a few moments Hogan's thoughts dwelt on the attractions Kilmarnock might have to offer a casual visitor. "Go over it again, Newkirk," he said. "What else did you talk about?"

Newkirk flushed; but before he could answer, Carter came bustling out of the darkroom. "Got the negatives, Colonel."

Hogan took the drying rack and held it up to the light, studying the images with the help of the magnifying glass which Kinch handed him. "Well, I can't make anything of it, either," he said at last, passing the negatives back to Carter. "It looks like some kind of runic script, which is just the kind of thing the Nazis are nuts on. There should be people in London who can translate it, once we get it to them. But getting it there won't be quick."

The radio buzzed, and Kinch picked up the headset. For a couple of minutes, nobody said a word. The only sounds were the Morse signals from the radio, and the scratching of pencil on paper. Then Kinch handed the notebook to Hogan. "Not much to go on, Colonel."

"Anne-Marie Barallier," murmured Hogan. "Aged twenty-eight, born in Beauvais. Her father was a greengrocer - you sure you got that right, Kinch? LeBeau told me he was a magistrate."

"I think I know how _greengrocer_ is spelled," replied Kinch dryly. "But I can ask them to repeat it, if you want."

"Okay, no need to get on your high horse," said Hogan with a grin. "I'll take your word for it. Guess she thought a magistrate sounded classier." He continued his perusal. "She worked as a secretary for a lawyer in Paris - the same lawyer who defended François Bloch on a couple of misdemeanour charges. So that would be how she got involved with him."

"She was arrested in Bloch's apartment, after he and his gang attacked a police station," added Kinch. "But they couldn't find anything to charge her with, so they had to let her go. After that, she seems to have gone to ground."

"Until now." Hogan's eyes were still on the page. "As for Bloch, he got a life sentence, but he was released by the Germans when Paris fell. Present whereabouts unknown."

"Anything else before I sign off?" asked Kinch.

"No," said Hogan. "Wait, there is something. Ask them about Kilmarnock - whether there's anything going on there, any strategic importance about the place, or any other reason she might have mentioned it."

"What's on your mind, Colonel?" said Newkirk, as Kinch started transmitting.

"I'm not sure," murmured Hogan. "There's something about this woman that just doesn't add up. We know she was involved with the fascists before the war. And we know she's involved - very much so - with Wolfert. So why didn't she just turn you over the minute she laid eyes on you?"

Newkirk pursed his lips, thinking about it. "She did say something about not wanting to get me into trouble, on account of me being a mate of LeBeau's. I was a bit short with her about it, told her to change the subject. That's when she started talking about Kilmarnock."

"What do you think it means?" asked Carter.

Hogan folded his arms, and spoke slowly, as if he were still working it out. "She must have realised, as soon as she saw Newkirk, that he wasn't just an ordinary prisoner of war. Once she worked that out, it wouldn't a huge leap to start wondering whether a prisoner who can impersonate a guard at will has anything else going on. Then she'd ask herself what he was doing in Klink's office in the first place, and the answer would be pretty obvious. So what does she do? She asks if he's been to an obscure town in Ayrshire, one with no known strategic importance. It's an odd conversation starter, any way you look at it."

"Perhaps she was trying to tell us something," suggested Carter. "What if the Krauts are planning an air strike there?"

"And what possible reason would the Germans have for bombing Kilmarnock?" said Newkirk. "There's nothing there that would make it worth their while."

Carter's brow wrinkled. "Well, maybe they're after the whisky factory."

Newkirk rolled his eyes. "Right. The illustrious Luftwaffe are planning to bring the entire Allied war effort to a complete standstill by cutting off the supply of Johnnie Walker Black Label...actually, Andrew, you might be on to something there."

"I don't think it's that," said Hogan. "Well, Kinch?"

"They've told me to stand by," replied Kinch. "Apparently it does mean something." His eyes were grave as he studied Hogan's face. "And my guess is, you've already got it worked out, Colonel."

"Maybe," murmured Hogan. He leaned against one of the support posts, frowning. The others waited expectantly, but he seemed lost in thought.

"Well, let's hear it, then," said Newkirk.

Hogan's frown deepened. "Wolfert's got something big going on. We know he's desperate to keep it quiet, so it's probably something the Allied High Command needs to know about. And if Hitler's asking for a progress report, it's probably pretty far along in the planning stage. We've got copies of his papers, but it's going to take time to get them to England, and more time to get them translated. If they're coded as well, it'll take even longer. By the time our people have worked out what Project Termite is, it could be too late. But there's one person who might have an idea of what Wolfert's doing. And she might just be prepared to work with us on it."

"You think she'd turn on Wolfert?" Newkirk paused, considering the possibility. "She's very standoffish with him," he said at length. "He's absolutely besotted, but she doesn't seem to like him above half. I know she's got form for getting cosy with some right nasty geezers, but maybe she's not with Wolfert by choice. Some of those ruddy Krauts don't take no for an answer." His jaw clenched at the thought.

"It's possible," said Hogan. "But I think there's something else going on. She took a big chance, hiding you from him, just so she could talk about Kilmarnock. It's got to mean something."

For a minute or so, nobody spoke. Kinch kept his eyes on Hogan, as if trying to read whatever it was the colonel didn't want to say aloud. Newkirk fidgeted, but Carter hardly dared move, and almost jumped out of his skin when the silence was broken by the incoming transmission.

Hogan straightened up, watching the dawning look of stunned amazement on the radio man's face. Without a word, Kinch handed him the notebook. He read the message, then sighed. "I was right," he said.

"What is it, Colonel?" asked Newkirk. "What's going on at Kilmarnock?"

"Absolutely nothing," replied Hogan. "It's not the place that matters. It's the name." He looked down at the words spelled out in Kinch's neat, rapid handwriting. "'Kilmarnock. Recognition code identifying deep cover agent, code name Nightingale. Provide all possible assistance.'"

"She's one of ours?" Newkirk stared at him, staggered. "But - but - blimey, Colonel, what about her and Wolfert?"

Carter's mouth had fallen open; he gave a half-hysterical giggle of sheer astonishment. "Boy, when they say _deep cover_, they aren't kidding."

"It's pretty unbelievable, Colonel," said Kinch. "I sure wouldn't have picked her for an Allied agent. Everything we know about her..."

"Everything we know, we have to look at again," Hogan interrupted. "Wolfert leaves for Berchtesgaden first thing in the morning. Once he's gone, I'll go through the tunnel and pay his girlfriend a little social call. But there's someone else I have to talk to first. I'll go see him tonight, after lights out."

"Who's that, Colonel?" asked Carter.

Hogan tore the page from the notebook, and slipped it into his pocket. He didn't answer Carter's question; and neither Kinch nor Newkirk needed to ask. They already knew who the colonel would be calling on that night.


	9. Chapter 9

_Note: for the layout of the cooler cell in this chapter, refer to "The Gestapo Takeover" (Season 6)._

* * *

Ten o'clock at night; the guard on duty at the cooler was making his hourly pass through the building. Even though he had only one prisoner in his charge, he still inspected every cell.

LeBeau was in no mood to be glad of anything, but he knew how lucky he was to have been wearing his jacket and beret when he went to clean the Kommandant's quarters that morning. Without them, and the scarf which had been folded and stuffed into his pocket, he would be in a bad way by now. At least his outer man had some protection from the icy touch of the air down here. But the chill around his heart remained.

He sat cross-legged on the narrow cot, gazing at the opposite wall, and paid no attention when Corporal Ritter paused to check on him, before going back to his post outside, where it was warmer. The echoing of his footsteps, and the jangling of the big bunch of keys at his belt, faded; the heavy outer door slammed shut, and the uneasy quiet of isolation fell over the cells.

The prisoner barely had time to get used to it. A faint scratching sound from behind the wall intruded on his dark meditation. For a few seconds, he was tempted to ignore it. It was probably nothing more than a rat, sharpening its teeth on the rubble core of the thick wall. But when it continued, he sighed, slid off the bed and pattered over to the small, roughly made table against the opposite wall. It looked flimsy enough, but it was actually quite sturdy. It needed to be; behind it was a concealed entrance to the tunnel network below the camp.

As soon as LeBeau swung the table aside, Hogan emerged on his hands and knees from the low, narrow connecting passage. "All clear?" he murmured.

"_Oui, Colonel_. Ritter just made his rounds," whispered LeBeau.

"Good. Come on." Hogan retreated, and after a brief hesitation LeBeau crept after him. Half a minute later, he tumbled out into the main tunnel. Hogan helped him to his feet. "Give Walters your scarf and beret," he said. "Walters, you know what to do. Remember, stay under the blanket, and try to look small."

Walters, the only man in Barracks 2 who even came close to LeBeau's diminutive stature, grinned as he wrapped the distinctive red scarf around his throat. "Just don't leave me in there too long, Colonel," he replied, and vanished in the direction of the cooler.

Hogan turned his attention to LeBeau. "How are you holding up?"

"Okay, I guess," replied LeBeau. "What's going on with Walters?"

"Just in case we don't get you back into the cooler before Ritter's next check. There's a lot we need to talk about, and it might take some time."

"_Mon Colonel_, I don't want to talk."

"Yeah, I know. But things have been happening while you've been out of circulation," said Hogan. "It's complicated, and I need your help to figure it out. You hungry?"

"No, not really," replied LeBeau; then blushed, as his stomach gave a decided growl. "Well, maybe a little."

Hogan chuckled, and jerked his chin towards a couple of packing cases which had been set against the tunnel wall, one of them covered with a red-checked tablecloth and set with the regulation prisoner's mess kit, along with a bottle of wine. LeBeau eyed the meal with suspicion. "Who cooked it?" he asked. "Please tell me you didn't let Newkirk have anything to do with it."

"Newkirk did not. It was Addison," said Hogan. "Turns out he's not a bad cook. But he left your food locker pretty disorganised, and I'm sorry to have to tell you he fried the steak in your omelette pan."

"Vandal!" muttered LeBeau. But he sat down on one of the other boxes, leaning over the plate and sniffing delicately. Detecting nothing to repulse him, he cut off a small square of meat, and tasted it. "Not bad," he murmured. "A little too much seasoning, but that's Americans for you."

"Yeah, well, not everyone's got your delicate touch, LeBeau." Hogan took a seat on a wooden crate, and reached for the wine bottle. "Last week's vintage, from the guys in Barracks 3," he explained, as he poured the dark, oddly viscous liquid. "Two glasses of this, and you won't care how cold it is in your cell."

"Three glasses, and I may never wake up," choked LeBeau, after the first sip. He put it to one side, and tackled the meal in front of him, glad of the excuse to delay the serious part of the evening's business.

For a couple of minutes, neither man spoke. Hogan had taken a glass of wine for himself, but he wasn't drinking. LeBeau studied him furtively, between mouthfuls, trying to guess what Hogan wanted to talk about. He had a strong suspicion it had to do with Anne. The thought robbed him of his appetite. He didn't want to even think about her.

_Better to get it over with_, he thought.

"What is it you want me to do, _mon Colonel_?" His voice felt hoarse as he spoke, and he cleared his throat, and took another mouthful of wine.

Hogan put his own glass down, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the makeshift table. "This afternoon, Newkirk had a few words with the general's interpreter. During that little chat, she said something that seemed a bit strange, given the tone of the conversation. I got Kinch to ask headquarters if it meant anything, and this is the reply they sent."

He took a slip of paper out of his pocket and handed it over. LeBeau read it; then he read it again. Finally, after reading a third time, he just sat staring at it.

"_Non. Mais non. Pas possible_," he said at last. "I don't believe it."

He threw the paper down, and jumped to his feet, glowering at Hogan.

"Not sure I believe it myself," replied Hogan. "But there's something about that relationship that's off. The reason Newkirk got to speak with her was because he almost got caught in Klink's office, rifling the safe. He only got out of it because she helped him hide."

LeBeau began to walk back and forth. "_Non, c'est incroyable_," he muttered. Abruptly, he turned on Hogan. "Do you think it is even possible? That she could go so far - be with him - _sleep _with him - "

"That's what I've got to work out," said Hogan. "I haven't seen her, but from what Newkirk tells me, she's very cool towards Wolfert. So it's possible she's not with him by choice."

The crease between LeBeau's eyebrows deepened as he considered. "I don't know. She always kept her feelings to herself. I remember how long it took before I got her to smile..." His voice failed him; the recollection was too clear, and too close.

After a few seconds, Hogan changed tack slightly. "Okay, this is how I see it. If she really is an Allied agent, or if she's willing, she can help us get a handle on whatever Wolfert's working on. But first I've got to know as a certainty that I can trust her. As things stand, there are too many question marks hanging over her. I need to know more about her, as much as I can find out. That's where you come in. Anything you can tell me is going to help."

LeBeau continued pacing, his brow lowered, and his lips moving silently as he argued the matter out with himself. Then he sat down, picked up his glass and drained it in one go; exhaled sharply, as the alcohol hit home, then took a deep breath.

"Where do you want me to start, _Colonel_?" he asked.

Hogan refilled both glasses. "Start at the beginning," he said.

"The beginning," sighed LeBeau. He paused for a moment, gazing at the wine. "_Bien._ Then I must start seven years ago, in Paris, at the Café Rossignol..."


	10. Chapter 10

From the day it had opened, just after the turn of the century, the café had been known as _Le Rossignol_. Proprietors and patrons had come and gone, but the name remained unchanged, painted in big old-fashioned letters on the little awning over the door.

"Why _Le Rossignol_?" Louis had asked once; but there was nobody left who knew.

Louis was only working there as a favour to a friend. He'd known Pierre since childhood; they had drifted apart as they grew up, but when Pierre had moved his family back to Paris and taken over the café, the old friendship had resumed, as naturally as if it had never fallen away. So when an emergency appendectomy forced Pierre's wife to take extended bed rest, it was only natural for him to turn to Louis for help in keeping the kitchen running; and Louis, who had just walked away from his last job, was only too happy to oblige.

At least, he was until he saw the kitchen.

"It's a bit small," Pierre admitted. "But if it makes you feel better, the wine cellar is a lot bigger. And there's a kitchen garden." He pointed towards the tiny courtyard outside the back door of the kitchen.

"Three window boxes with herbs in them and an old sink planted full of nasturtiums doesn't count as a garden," said Louis. But he never even thought of backing out. Pierre needed his help. So he squared his shoulders, and set to work.

He spent two days getting the little kitchen reorganised to his satisfaction, but needed a little longer to adjust his cooking style. The _haute cuisine _which had been required at the Hotel Marmont-Jouet wouldn't do here. Pierre's customers liked their meals simple and substantial. They expected a _carbonnade de boeuf _on Monday, _andouillettes _on Thursday, and as far as some of them were concerned, the world would end if they couldn't finish with a large serving of Josette's apple strudel, made to a recipe she'd inherited from a German grandmother.

Louis had no trouble mastering that; he'd started out as a pastry chef.

If the regular menu was a little uninspired, at least he could stretch his wings on the special of the day. The customers soon began to take an interest in the intriguing aromas which filtered from the tiny kitchen; and, in the true spirit of epicurean adventure which exists in almost every born Parisian, most of them couldn't resist.

"Monsieur Stéphane will have the octopus." Milly, the little dark-eyed waitress, bustled into the kitchen, dodging around young Rémi who had stayed home from school to help out in the family emergency. "But _l__e bon vieux _Claude says the _pot-au-feu _has been good enough for him ever since he came to Paris, and he doesn't see why he should try something new at his age."

"Peasant!" muttered Louis, as he hovered over a huge pot from which arose the steamy essence of fennel, garlic, and orange peel.

"And Mademoiselle Anne has just come in," added Milly.

"I know, I know. One bowl of vegetable soup, _à l'instant_."

"No," said Milly. "She wants to try the _bourride_. She says she used to have it often, and she would like to taste it again. And that's more than she has said in the whole of the last year."

Louis chuckled, as he threw some butter into a pan for the _croûtons_. Milly always had to know everything about everyone, and it irked her that Mademoiselle Anne kept herself so very much to herself.

By the time he'd plated the soup, Milly was busy flirting with a nice young man from the railway office, while Pierre was deep in conversation with_ le bon vieux _Claude; from the way Pierre was waving his hands around, they were probably discussing the election results. There was no point in standing on one's dignity as _chef de cuisine_; this wasn't that kind of establishment anyway. Louis went out and served Mademoiselle Anne himself.

* * *

"Hold on a minute, LeBeau." Hogan interrupted the story at this point. "What did you call the stuff?"

"_Bourride_. It's a kind of fish soup, with garlic," said LeBeau. "The recipe comes from Languedoc, in the south. I worked with a chef once who came from Montpellier, and I learned to make it from him."

"So it's a southern thing. Do they eat it much in the north?"

"Not a lot. Some restaurants have it." LeBeau's forehead wrinkled. "Why are you asking about that, _mon Colonel_?"

Hogan took another sip of wine, and grimaced. "This stuff isn't improving any. I'm just trying to get the full picture, LeBeau. There are a few inconsistencies I'd like to iron out before I speak to her. For instance, how does a greengrocer's daughter from Beauvais know this fish soup enough to get all nostalgic for it?"

"Maybe she went to the _Midi_ on vacation. But she's not a greengrocer's daughter."

"According to London, that's just what she is," said Hogan. "Which doesn't square with what you know about her. How did you find out her father was a magistrate?"

"She told me herself. But that was later," replied LeBeau.

"All right, let's not get ahead of ourselves. Go on from where you were. That was the first time you actually spoke to her, right?"

"_Oui_." LeBeau's glass was empty, and he reached for the bottle. "And to be honest, I wasn't really interested at first. She wasn't my type."

* * *

...although she was quite pretty, and very _chic_, with her little black suit, and her hair cut close around her face. But Louis had never much cared for redheads. Besides, her demeanour was distinctly chilly; she barely glanced up from her newspaper at his approach.

"_Bon appétit_," he said, as he placed the soup bowl and accompanying dish of _aïoli_ before her.

"_Merci_." She waited until he had retreated before she tasted the soup. Watching from the kitchen door, Louis couldn't tell from her profile whether she was enjoying her meal; but she didn't leave so much as a teaspoonful.

On her next visit, she went back to her usual routine, and ordered _potage aux légumes_. But a few days later, Louis's _lentilles de Puy à la provençale_ overcame her resistance. From then on it became a kind of game for Louis, trying to guess what she'd be tempted by, identifying which part of the culinary atlas held the most charm; and from studying her as a customer to studying her as a woman was such a natural progression that he didn't even realise how fast his interest was evolving, from the purely professional to something rather more personal.

"She looks tired, don't you think?" he remarked to Milly one day.

"She looks cross," replied Milly. "That's nothing new." She went off to dally with her friend from the railway office, while Louis got out the mortar and pestle, and started pounding basil and garlic into a paste, the final touch for today's _soupe au pistou._

By now Louis believed himself completely in tune with Mademoiselle Anne's taste; she certainly had a yearning for the flavours of the south. If it made extra work for Louis, if he had to trawl through recipe books, interrogate friends from Languedoc and Provence, and ransack the markets for the freshest produce and seafood from the south, he was quite prepared to do so.

But today, even as he worked for her, he kept turning over in his mind the reason for Mademoiselle Anne's dispirited air. That was what it was: not tired, nor cross, but disheartened, just as if the warmth of the summer's day had somehow passed her by. It wasn't just today, either; it suddenly struck him that she almost always looked a little sad.

The thought tugged at Louis's own spirits, until he had an idea. "Rémi," he said, "go out into the garden, and get some nasturtiums."

Rémi glanced at him, smirked as only a young Parisian can, and strolled off on his errand.

An unfamiliar diffidence hung around Louis, as he emerged from the kitchen a few minutes later, bringing her his latest offering: a bowl of soup, sweetly aromatic with basil, accompanied by a slice of _pain de campagne_ with grilled goat's cheese; and the sunshine of yellow and orange nasturtiums, arranged in an old mustard pot.

Perhaps Louis hadn't yet admitted to himself what was going on in his heart; but apart from the girl herself, every other person in the café had a pretty good idea, and a slight hush fell as he approached her table. Milly glanced over her shoulder, bright-eyed with curiosity; Pierre leaned casually on the bar as he watched; Rémi peeped out from the kitchen; and the regular customers exchanged smiles. But Louis, seeing the faint blush which rose to Anne's cheek, and the slightest hint of a smile on her lips as she brushed her fingers over the bright petals, didn't really care what anyone else was thinking.

* * *

LeBeau's monologue came to a stop. For a minute or so, he sat silent, his eyes dark with the bitterness of remembering. Hogan didn't say a word. He knew how painful memory could be.

Finally, LeBeau said, "Is there any more of that wine?"

"You must have a death wish," said Hogan. But he produced another bottle from the floor at his feet.

"You know something, _mon Colonel_?" LeBeau shifted to a more comfortable position. "After everything was over, I tried to believe that it was all an act, that she never really cared about me. It was easier that way. But that day, that was real, and I could never convince myself it wasn't. That day, and one other."

"And when was that?" asked Hogan, filling both glasses.

LeBeau sighed softly. "The day she told me about her father."

* * *

Notes:

The French legislative elections in April and May, 1936, resulted in the Popular Front (a coalition of left-wing parties) forming government.

_Andouillettes_ are a type of sausage, generally made with pork intestines.

_Pistou_: a paste of basil, garlic and olive oil. Similar to the Italian _pesto_ but without pine nuts or parmesan (although some modern recipes include grated cheese).


	11. Chapter 11

By the end of June, Pierre's wife was well enough to return to _Le Rossignol_. But at the end of her first day, after observing the little romance which had sprung up in her absence, Josette announced that she didn't think she was ready to take over the kitchen without help. If only Louis could stay on a little longer...

Louis had no intention of leaving. He'd never been happier than on the days when Anne came to the café. She remained as quiet and reserved as ever, but he knew she wasn't indifferent, by the brightening of her eyes when she saw him, and the touch of colour in her face whenever he spoke to her. That, and her obvious enjoyment of the little meals he prepared for her, was encouragement enough at first.

He usually went back to the kitchen as soon as he'd served her, allowing her a little privacy over her meal. But one day he lingered for a few moments. That morning he had found young artichokes at the market. Prepared _à la barigoule_, they looked, and smelled, absolutely perfect; but he thought he detected the merest hint of withdrawal when he placed them before her.

_She doesn't like it_, he thought; and suddenly his outlook turned as grey as the first autumn rain. She tasted them gingerly; then she set to with every sign of pleasure, and the sun came out again.

He stayed for a few moments, smiling at the daintiness with which she ate, until she became aware of his scrutiny. "I haven't had artichokes since I was a child," she murmured, as if she felt he needed an explanation. "I thought I didn't like them." Then, after a few seconds, she added diffidently, "My father once said that a well-cooked artichoke is as rare and as precious as an honourable soul."

"Very philosophical. He's a wise man, if he appreciates the qualities of an artichoke," replied Louis.

Her colour rose. "These are very good," she said.

Louis could barely hear her over the chatter of the other diners; without thinking, he sat down opposite her before he replied: "It's an old recipe from the _Midi_."

"Is that where you come from?"

"Me? No, I'm a native Parisian." Then, emboldened by her apparent interest, he went on: "How about you?"

She seemed uneasy about the question, and glanced at the customers sitting nearby before she answered. "Beauvais, in Picardy."

"In the north?" He couldn't hide his surprise; and she blushed even more.

He gazed at her in perplexity for a few seconds, but her embarrassment was obvious enough to make him almost as uncomfortable. "Well, I'll leave you to enjoy your artichokes," he said, standing up. She didn't reply, and he returned to the kitchen.

During the days that followed, he pondered over her discomfort, wondering whether his innocent question had inadvertently crossed the limits set by her very private nature. His preoccupation cast a gloom over the whole café. Pierre regarded him with the exasperated concern of a man who had seen him through all the great and small worries of childhood, and yet had no idea how to help. Josette cosseted and scolded in equal measure, and Rémi grumbled that if it was going to be so boring around here, he might as well go back to school.

Milly took a more practical stand. One morning, a week or so later, she came into the kitchen. "It's Wednesday, Louis."

"Really?" Louis didn't look up from his cutting board. "Why don't you tell me something I don't know?"

"Don't be so snippy," said Milly. "I was just going to ask what's on the menu today, seeing as Mademoiselle Anne will be here for lunch."

"Who says she will be here? We didn't sign her to a contract to come in every Wednesday," replied Louis.

"He's making _ratatouille niçoise_," said Josette, who was kneading pastry.

Louis lips twitched. "Well, she might come in, and I'd hate her to be disappointed."

"You know, I have been thinking," remarked Milly. "Wouldn't it be ever so much better if for once she didn't come here?"

Josette glared at her. "Milly, how can you say such a thing?" Louis didn't say a word, but the aubergine he was dicing did not come out as evenly as it should.

Nevertheless, Milly stuck to her point. "Think about it. It's always busy on Wednesdays, because everyone knows Louis will have something special on the menu. But Mademoiselle Anne doesn't like crowds, so she'd be happier if she went somewhere quieter. And Louis would be happier, and much easier to get on with, if he had a chance to talk to her without being the centre of attention. It's time you took her out on a date, Louis."

"Oh, thank you. That would never have occurred to me," snapped Louis. "One small problem. If I ask her out while everyone's listening, it might scare her off for good. And I never see her anywhere else. I don't even know where she works."

The smirk on Milly's face would have given a Siamese cat an inferiority complex. "In the Rue de Beaune, at the office of Georges Sorel, the lawyer. On Wednesdays she works until one o'clock, comes here for lunch, then has the rest of the day off. So if you happened to be in the Rue de Beaune at one o'clock..." She let the sentence hang, and went out to set the tables for lunch.

For a couple of minutes, not a word was spoken in the kitchen. Then Josette gathered her pastry into a ball, and left it to rest. "You should go," she said.

"One o'clock is when we're busiest," replied Louis. "Anyway, what if she tells me to go away?"

"At least you will have tried." Josette laid a gentle hand, still dusty with flour, on his shoulder, and drew him away from the workbench. "Louis, we can manage without you for once. Go and find her."

He hesitated for a moment longer, then tugged off his apron, kissed Josette on both cheeks, and hastened off, grabbing his coat from the rack on his way out.

Ten seconds later, he came back. "Uh, Josette... can I take a few things with me?"

He was waiting in the Rue de Beaune at least fifteen minutes early, so anxious was he not to miss her. It was ample time for second thoughts, and Louis had plenty of those. Was this a step too far? Might she be offended, maybe even angry, when she saw him here? What if it wasn't him she liked, but his _pissaladière_?

He tightened his grip on the little wicker case he had brought with him, and checked his watch; and when he looked again, she was there, walking quickly towards him. As soon as she caught sight of him, her eyes widened.

"Monsieur LeBeau," she said. "What are you doing here? Is something wrong at _Le Rossignol_?"

He hastily reassured her. "No, nothing is wrong. But it's Wednesday, and the special of the day - well, it's something a little bit different today."

She tilted her head, a tiny crease forming between her eyebrows. "In what way?" she asked.

"Let's just say it's something that tastes much better _en plein air_," replied Louis, his eyes twinkling.

Her gaze fell to the basket. "A picnic?"

"Well, it's such a beautiful day," he explained. "But if you would rather go to the café as usual, they're serving _ratatouille_."

"I like _ratatouille_," murmured the girl. Then she went pink, and added, "I like picnics, too."

"I can make _ratatouille_ for you any time. All you have to do is ask," said Louis; and received his reward when she smiled, a shy, serious smile, but a smile all the same. He offered her his arm; after only a moment's hesitation she took it.

He had known where he wanted to go from the moment he'd thought of a picnic. Setting a leisurely pace, he led her down towards the Seine, then turned right to stroll along the Quai Voltaire, stopping every now and then to browse at one of the green _bouquiniste_ boxes, or just to look at the river. Some ten minutes brought them to the Pont Neuf, the oldest bridge in Paris, which crosses the Île de la Cité on its way to the right bank. From the bridge, hidden behind the statue of one of the kings of the long-distant past, he brought her to a flight of steps, and descended to the tiny garden on the very end of the island; a quiet, green little place, untroubled by the noise of the traffic on the bridge above, and the busy river on either side.

"Oh, how pretty this is," Anne murmured, once she and Louis had found a vacant bench in the shade of a maple tree.

"It is, isn't it?" Louis was unpacking the picnic, but he looked up and smiled. "Haven't you been here before?"

"I have only lived in Paris for a year," she replied. "There are so many things I haven't seen yet."

"You come from Beauvais, don't you? I've never been there," said Louis. "What's it like?"

She gave him a sideways glance. "Just an ordinary town. There's nothing special about it."

"You didn't like it there?"

"I like Paris better."

He'd brought _baguettes_ filled with sliced chicken and lettuce, a bottle of white wine from Pierre's cellar, and some fresh apricots. It was the plainest meal he'd prepared since he'd been tall enough to reach the stove; but the simplicity only seemed to add to Anne's enjoyment. She sat silently for some time after they had finished, watching the barges and _bateaux mouches_ going past. After a while, she sighed, very softly. "I haven't been on a picnic since I was a little girl. I always loved them."

"When I was a boy, I used to go hiking in the woods around Épernay, with my cousin Emile," said Louis. "We'd just take whatever food we could find in the pantry, and when we found a good spot for a camp fire, we would cook our meal right there. But you can't do that in a park in Paris."

"We took sandwiches, and we always left early, before anyone could send for Papa." Anne had a dreamy look about her, as if she was looking at an old photograph. "He was the magistrate, so whenever anything happened, they would call him to investigate. So we would go off very quietly, while it was still dark, and spend the whole day in the country."

"Your father is a magistrate?" Louis whistled. "That's an important job."

"He was. But he died." She paused, then went on with unintentional vehemence. "He was a good man. No matter what anyone said..." Her voice fell away.

"Well, he certainly had a beautiful daughter," said Louis, just to break the silence. It seemed a good idea to change the subject; he pointed towards the huge, imposing building which dominated the right bank. "Have you visited the Louvre?"

"I went there once. But I found it very tiring," she confessed. "There's so much of it, and it's all so old. I don't like dead things. Parks are nicer than museums."

"Oh, Paris has the most beautiful parks in the world. The Bois de Boulogne, the Jardin des Plantes, Buttes-Chaumont...you don't know them?"

"Only the Jardin des Plantes. I know of the Bois de Boulogne, but I have never been there."

"Would you like to? I know it well." He smiled, just enough to bring out his dimple. As it happened, he'd never set foot in the Bois de Boulogne, but he could soon find out all about it, if he needed to. "It's beautiful at this time of year."

"Is it? Perhaps...would you...I would very much like..." Anne stammered, and looked away, her cheeks very pink. But Louis saw his chance, and took it.

"Why don't we go out there one day? Are you doing anything on Sunday afternoon?"

She didn't answer at once, and he almost held his breath until she spoke. "I would like that. I'd like it very much."

* * *

"How long after that was it that things went south?" asked Hogan.

LeBeau took another mouthful of wine before he answered. "That was in late July. They arrested her with Bloch at the beginning of October."

"And during that time, did she ever say anything more about where she grew up, or what happened to her father?"

"No, she never spoke of it again." The wine, and the lateness of the hour, were starting to have their effect; LeBeau was having trouble keeping his eyes open.

Hogan sat with his arms folded, trying to fit the pieces together. "Okay, let's see. Our people have her down as the daughter of a greengrocer from Beauvais. But she told you her father was a magistrate, and even though it's possible a girl from Beauvais might be partial to recipes from Provence, I can't help thinking it's more likely she grew up in the south."

"She did seem a little strange about Beauvais," remarked LeBeau, after a moment of thought. "I remember it struck me at the time, how she kept looking round to see who was listening. But I just put it down to shyness."

"Maybe that's what it was." Hogan paused for a moment, frowning. "Or maybe she was checking whether it was safe to talk, and she decided it wasn't. But in the park, when it was just you and her, that was different."

He meditated a little more, then said, "The greengrocer at Beauvais - I think that might have been a cover story."

"Why would she need a cover?"

"Same reason we do, probably," replied Hogan grimly. "So she could carry out some kind of scheme without arousing suspicion. What we don't know yet is what that scheme was."

He mulled it over, idly swirling the wine left at the bottom of his glass. "You said something about her father being called out if anything happened," he said suddenly. "Why would they call the magistrate?"

"If he was the examining magistrate, they might call him," replied LeBeau. "That's his job, to investigate serious criminal matters and build the case before it goes to court."

"Serious matters - you mean like the kind of business François Bloch and his gang got up to? You told me they tried to assassinate the mayor of some town or other. Where exactly was that?"

"Joubelet-les-Bains. It's in..." LeBeau's voice trailed off. He suddenly sat up straight, staring at Hogan in consternation. "It's in Provence, on the Mediterranean coast, not far from Toulon."

"And the other place, where they burned down the synagogue. Is that around there, too?"

"_Oui_, Pontvallon, a little further west, towards Marseille." LeBeau dropped back again, dazed.

"So, assuming we're right, and Anne-Marie comes from that region," Hogan went on, "it's possible that her father was the magistrate in one of those places. And if so, maybe he got caught up in Bloch's activities."

"She said he was a good man," murmured LeBeau. "But something happened, something she didn't want to talk about."

There was silence, as they both considered the implications. But LeBeau's meditation ended in an irrepressible, jaw-splitting yawn, and Hogan grinned. "Okay, LeBeau. I think that's as far as we can get without speaking to her. You'd better get back to the cooler, and try to get some sleep, unless there's anything else you think I ought to know."

LeBeau stood up, tottering slightly. He started off, then stopped. "There is one thing, _mon Colonel_. Maybe it's nothing, but..." He picked up the crumpled piece of paper inscribed with the message which had thrown everything he thought he knew into chaos. "The code name she uses - Nightingale. Do you think she chose that herself?"

"It's possible," said Hogan. "Does it mean something to you?"

"_Oui, mon Colonel_." LeBeau carefully smoothed out the creases. "Like I said, it may be nothing. But I first met her at _Le Rossignol_. And _rossignol_ is the French word for a nightingale."

* * *

Notes:

Artichokes _à la barigoule_: braised in white wine. Seasonings vary according to different sources.

_Pissaladière_: not dissimilar to a pizza, but with onions, olives and anchovies as topping.

_En plein air_: in the open air.

And a geographical note: before anyone goes rushing to find Joubelet-les-Bains or Pontvallon on a map, perhaps I should mention that as far as I know, these places do not actually exist.


	12. Chapter 12

True to his word, General Wolfert left Stalag 13 at precisely six a.m. From the window of the barracks, Hogan watched as Klink escorted his guest to the waiting staff car.

"Wouldn't you love to know what they're talking about?" murmured Kinch, who was looking over Hogan's shoulder.

"Oh, I can tell you that," replied Newkirk; and without missing a beat, he went on in an almost perfect imitation of the Kommandant's fawning, submissive whine, "_Herr General_, when you're talking to the Führer, if the opportunity should arise to mention your visit here...well, you know, he made a surprise inspection once, and he loved our little Stalag. I'm sure he'd be most interested..."

Hogan cut him off. "Newkirk, please, not before breakfast. You're making me nauseous."

A few more words were exchanged between Klink and Wolfert, before the general got into his car. Klink stood at attention until it had passed through the gate and gone out of sight, then returned to his temporary home in the VIP hut.

Hogan closed the shutter. "Okay. Roll call is in an hour. Straight after roll call, Klink goes back to his office to sign off on yesterday's reports. Schultz, meanwhile, checks the duty roster and posts the guard, then, because it's Wednesday, he'll head off to the quartermaster's warehouse in Hammelburg to pick up supplies. That should keep both of them occupied, giving me plenty of time to go through the tunnel to Klink's quarters and pay a call on Mademoiselle."

"What if Klink decides to go and check up on her?" asked Kinch.

"He'll be far too busy, taking phone calls," said Hogan. "Lots of phone calls, from all kinds of important people. That's where you two come in." He put a hand on Carter's shoulder, and grinned at Newkirk. "I want you to go down to the switchboard, and just keep calling him."

"Anyone particular you want us to be?" asked Newkirk.

"Anyone you like, as long as Klink won't refuse the call. You know the drill."

"We do." Newkirk's eyes gleamed in anticipation. "Burkhalter, then the Inspector General's office, Gestapo headquarters in Hammelburg, Burkhalter again, the barmaid at the Hofbrau..."

"Which one? Gretchen, or Brigitta?" asked Carter. "It's just that Brigitta's got that whole Marlene Dietrich thing going, and I don't think I can do that. Well, not without getting the giggles, anyway. Hey, but I bet Newkirk could..."

"I shouldn't worry about Brigitta," interrupted Hogan, forestalling Newkirk's forceful repudiation of the idea. "Klink's more scared of her than he is of the Gestapo. He hears her voice on the phone, he's liable to have a heart attack on the spot. That's a complication we don't need right now. Stick to Gretchen." He turned to Kinch. "You haven't got through to Dubois on the radio yet, right? When you do, ask him if he can give you any details about Bloch's activities in the south of France. There may have been a magistrate who got involved, see if you can find out anything about that. And I still want to know where Bloch is now."

"Do you think he's involved in this Project Termite, whatever it is?" asked Kinch.

"I just want to cover all the bases," replied Hogan. "Any other questions? Okay, get something to eat, and put the barracks in order. We've got a busy morning ahead, we don't want to waste time on housekeeping."

He followed his team out into the main barracks, where most of the others were still getting dressed, or tidying up before roll call. Addison, on the basis of his culinary efforts of the night before, had been appointed temporary cook; he was attending anxiously to the contents of a large saucepan on top of the stove.

"What have we got here, then?" asked Newkirk, peering into the steamy depths. "Porridge?"

"Oatmeal," replied Addison. He wasn't one to waste words; in fact he rarely spoke unless he had to.

"That's what I said, porridge." Newkirk went to make up his bunk. "Isn't that LeBeau's soup pot you're cooking it in? Well, it's your funeral, chum."

"I'll clean it," said Addison; but he looked a little worried as he gave the simmering mass a good stirring. Regardless of the affront to LeBeau's cookware, however, it was pretty good oatmeal, and on such a cold morning even those who didn't care for the stuff appreciated its warming qualities.

Roll call passed without incident; so much so that Schultz got nervous. "Colonel Hogan, what are you up to now?" he asked, once he'd confirmed that every man was accounted for.

Hogan was all plaintive innocence. "What? Can't we take a day off?"

"You could, but you never do," grumbled Schultz. "I may not know much, but there's one thing I know for sure. When you and your men are behaving very well, that means you are about to behave very, very badly."

"Yeah, we gotta do something about that," observed Hogan, as the guard lumbered off, muttering under his breath, to give his report to the Kommandant. "Carter, next time we've got something on, look shifty. And that's an order."

"Dismissed!" Klink's fretful, querulous command echoed across the parade ground; and as the prisoners dispersed, he stalked off towards the relative warmth of his office, with Schultz trotting dutifully behind him.

Back in the barracks, Hogan took up a surveillance post by the window, waiting until he saw Schultz leaving the Kommandantur, and plodding off towards the orderly room. Then he closed the window and headed for the tunnel, with his team right behind him.

"Give Klink five minutes to get comfortable," he told Newkirk and Carter. "Then start calling, and keep 'em coming till I get back."

As they disappeared to carry out their part, he turned to Kinch. "I don't know how long this'll take. So don't panic if I'm gone for some time."

He made his way swiftly along the tunnel. First meetings with other Allied agents were always slightly nerve-wracking, but he couldn't remember the last time he'd approached a new contact with such a tight feeling in his gut. He'd had a couple of hours, since hearing LeBeau's side of the story, to form an idea of what had actually been going on all those years ago in Paris; but even if he was right, things might have changed since then.

At the end of the passage, a short ladder brought him to the tiny chamber hollowed out just below the Kommandant's private quarters. The exit, concealed below Klink's old-fashioned wood stove, was a masterpiece of engineering, and the most complex mechanism in the whole of Stalag 13; a lever, so perfectly balanced that it could be operated single-handed, set the stove and its base gliding to one side.

Hogan checked his watch. Klink should be stuck on the phone by now. He put his hand on the lever, turned it, and with a feeling he was stepping into unknown territory, climbed up through the opening into the Kommandant's living room.

Almost immediately, he stopped. She was there, staring at the hole in the floor with startled disbelief; and as he ascended, she darted forward and snatched up the poker from amongst the fire irons.

"Kilmarnock!" The code word escaped Hogan's lips even as he started to duck.

She froze, then slowly lowered the poker. "Who are you?"

"Colonel Robert Hogan, senior prisoner of war officer...among other things." He pushed himself up from the tunnel, and rolled the stove back into place. "I already know who you are, but just to be certain, what's your code name?"

"Nightingale."

"Right answer."

She sank into the nearest armchair, her eyes fixed on him, still wary. "The man who was here yesterday - the Englishman - he told you? I did not think he understood."

"He didn't," said Hogan. "We made enquiries. But the answers we got just brought up a whole lot more questions." He paused, studying her closely, trying to find the quiet, reserved girl of LeBeau's memories. Reserved she still was, to the point of reticence; she didn't want to speak, that was obvious. But after a few moments, she made an effort.

"Did Louis tell you?" Her voice, unusually soft and low in tone, gave nothing away, but she didn't meet his gaze. "I suppose he had nothing good to say about me."

"I wouldn't say that. I think he tried to be fair." Hogan sat down on the sofa, facing her directly. "I'm going to lay it on the line. You took a big risk, giving Newkirk your recognition code. So you must be pretty anxious to make contact, and in a hurry. The word from headquarters is, you're on our side. But I have to weigh that up against what happened seven years ago. I'm not talking about Louis. I'm talking about François Bloch."

"_Je comprends_," she murmured.

"I've been trying to piece it together," Hogan went on, "and there are a couple of things that just don't fit. So I'm asking you to trust me. It's got something to do with your father, am I right?"

He knew he was, even before she spoke. "It has everything to do with him. He died because of his love for his country. That was how everything started, and how I came to be here now."

Hogan leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "We don't have a lot of time," he said. "So keep it brief. Tell me what happened."


	13. Chapter 13

"What do you know about my father?" Anne-Marie's manner hardly changed at all, but Hogan, watching her closely, noticed how her hands, clasped loosely in her lap, clenched slightly.

"According to one of my sources, he was a greengrocer," he replied. "But another source - one I trust - told me he was a magistrate." She nodded slightly, without speaking. Hogan pressed on. "Where was that? We worked out it wasn't in Beauvais."

"Aix-en-Provence. But after my mother died, he couldn't live there any more." Her voice, though soft, was quite steady. "He had a friend in the Ministry of Justice, who helped him to find another appointment, at Pontvallon."

"There was an incident there," said Hogan, after a few moments of silence. "An arson attack on a local synagogue."

She glanced up at him, then lowered her gaze again. "Just after he arrived. It should have been an easy case for him. Bloch and his friends made little secret of their activities. They called themselves _Le Marteau_, and they printed leaflets and posters, and held meetings. Everyone knew about them."

"What went wrong?"

She took her time about answering, and seemed to choose her words with care. "The inquiry was difficult. Witnesses changed their stories, evidence went missing. Papa spoke to the _commissaire_ of police, who promised to look into it. But almost at once the investigation was dropped, because...because the investigating magistrate came under investigation himself, in relation to another matter."

"Your father?" Hogan leaned forward.

She went on, as if he hadn't spoken, but her voice dropped almost to a whisper. "Not long after, there was an accident. He died."

Hogan, on the point of asking for more detail, held back. She had given him only the barest outlines, in the fewest possible words. The deep reserve LeBeau had mentioned wasn't just part of her cover, it was ingrained. But he wasn't fooled. Whatever her father had been accused of, so long ago, the memory was still as raw as if it had been yesterday.

He decided to let it go for now, and move on. "How'd you get involved?"

Before she could reply, there was a knock at the door. Hogan jumped to his feet, but had no time to take cover, as Schultz, without waiting, came barrelling in. "_Entschuldigung, Fräulein_. If you please...oh, Colonel Hogan, excuse me. I did not mean to interrupt, but..."

"Schultz, didn't your mother ever teach you not to burst in on a lady without permission?" said Hogan, regarding the intruder with disfavour. "For all you knew, Mademoiselle might not have been decent."

"But I knocked," Schultz protested. "You know I would never do anything to cause embarrassment. Besides, if _das Fräulein_ was not ready for visitors, you would not be here...Colonel Hogan! What...why...what are you doing here?"

"Just paying a courtesy call, Schultz. It's only polite, when we have a guest in the camp. As the senior officer..."

"But you are not allowed in here. If the Kommandant finds out...if General Wolfert finds out...oh, please, Colonel Hogan..."

"Klink knows I'm here," said Hogan. "What, you think I'd sneak into his private quarters without telling him? And just how would I do that, with a guard on the door? It's not like we've got a tunnel, or a secret entrance, or anything crazy like that. I asked the Kommandant if I could pay a call, and I came straight from his office."

"You did?" Schultz blinked at him, doubt edging out the panic in his eyes.

"Well, don't take my word for it. Ask Mademoiselle."

"It is quite true, Sergeant," said Anne-Marie, as cool and aloof as ever.

Schultz wavered. "I think maybe I will just check with the big shot."

"I wouldn't do that, Schultz," said Hogan quickly. "He was on the phone to Burkhalter when I left. Something to do with requisitions, and the black market, and I'm sure I heard the word 'Gestapo' as well. And you know how touchy Klink gets whenever anyone mentions the Gestapo."

"You're right," muttered Schultz. "Better if I don't go anywhere near him. Forgive the intrusion, _Fräulein_."

He waddled back to the door, but paused with his hand on the doorknob. "Colonel Hogan, are you telling me the truth? Do you really have permission to be here?"

"All the permission I need," was the cheerful reply. Schultz gave a low grumble, and took himself off.

Hogan went to the window, and watched the sergeant as he crossed the yard. "Okay, it'll take a few minutes for him to remember what he came here for in the first place. Go on."

Anne had moved to another chair, so she was still facing him. "Papa kept a journal. He sent it to me, not long before...I was in Paris then, at the Sorbonne. At first I couldn't look at it. When I did, I found he had written everything down - the names of those responsible, and of their supporters, and where the money came from to fund their activities. You must understand, this was only a few months after the Stavisky affair. People saw conspiracies everywhere. Papa, too. He believed the long-term goal of these people was the destruction of the Republic."

"That's serious stuff," said Hogan. "What did you do with it?"

"I took it to his friend at the Ministry," she went on. "He told me to leave it with him. After that, I heard nothing more."

"So you decided to take them on yourself."

"Perhaps it was foolish of me," she murmured. "But they did not just take his life. They destroyed his good name."

"And you couldn't leave it at that. You got yourself a new identity, and you went after Bloch."

"I had no idea how to even begin. But I knew who his lawyer was, and I thought there might be something in his files, so I gave myself a new name and applied for work there as a typist."

"Just like that? No documentation, no backstory, nothing? How come you didn't get caught?"

A faint smile touched her lips. "I did get caught, by the _Renseignements Généraux_, the police intelligence service. It took them only three weeks, but by then I had already met him, and he was becoming interested in me. Personally interested. They decided to allow me to get close to him, and try to gather the evidence they needed to put an end to his activities. They told me to keep using the name I had chosen, and they invented a life to go with it. From then on I let him believe I was a sympathiser with his cause, and I pretended to admire him, and every word he said to me, I reported to my handlers."

It was on the tip of Hogan's tongue to ask her exactly how far the intelligence men had expected her to go in order to get close to François Bloch. But he held the question back, remembering how far he'd sometimes gone himself in the line of duty.

"It took a long time to gain his trust," she continued, apparently unaware of his hesitation. "Since Pontvallon, he had become very cautious, very _méfiant_. It became clear, even to such an inexperienced operative as I was, that he had some big plan, much bigger than anything that had gone before."

"I was told there was an attack on a police station in Paris," observed Hogan. "But I'm guessing that wasn't the big one, right?"

"No. That was a kind of test run, a rehearsal to make sure the equipment would work, and also to divert attention from the main target." She was growing more articulate, now that she had got past the most personal part of the story. "It was a terrible thing, but it had one good result. He was so excited at his success, he became overconfident. He wanted someone to know how clever he was. So he came to me, and told me what they had done, and what they planned to do."

"And what was the plan?" asked Hogan.

She leaned forward a little, and met his gaze without flinching. "An attack on the new socialist government. They intended to assassinate the President of the Republic."

It took Hogan a few moments to take that in. "I guess your father had them pegged, all right," he said. "That's why things happened so fast. You reported back to your handlers, and they arrested him at once."

Anne confirmed it with a nod. "They asked me to make sure he was at his _appartement_ when they arrived. To protect my cover, they had to arrest me, too, but it was arranged for me to be released without charge, and because of the publicity it was thought best that I should disappear, or at least that Anne-Marie Barallier should. So I went back to my own life, left Paris, and retired from intelligence work."

"Until the war broke out, and someone realised that a woman with a reputation as a Fascist sympathiser might be a very useful asset."

"_Oui_. After Paris was occupied, I was contacted by one of my old handlers, and asked to resume my cover and present myself as a collaborator. The _Boche _needed interpreters, and once the Gestapo had investigated my credentials, I was permitted to work for them, in the military administration. A few months later, General Wolfert came to Paris, and I was assigned to work with him."

"Okay. I'm not going to ask what happened next," said Hogan, retreating from the window. "I think I can figure it out for myself, and besides, Schultz is on his way back. Just tell me this. Wolfert's in love with you. Is it mutual?"

He had no choice; he had to know.

For the first time, her composure wavered. "No, Colonel. He has been very kind, and very generous, to me. But to others...No. I know him too well."

"I beg your pardon, _Fräulein_." Schultz didn't even knock this time, but simply barged in, breathless and flustered. "I remembered what it was I had to see you about. Before he left for Berchtesgaden, General Wolfert asked the Kommandant to hire a personal chef for him. He doesn't think the food in the officer's mess is good enough. Why he should think that, I have no idea."

"Maybe it was the all-night heartburn," suggested Hogan.

"Who knows?" Schultz shrugged, dismissing the general's eccentricity. "At any rate, as I am going into town this morning, I have to go around to all the restaurants and hotels and find a cook. As if I don't have enough to do already."

"Well, let's face it, Schultz, you'd be going to the Hofbrau anyway. So it's not exactly out of your way," said Hogan. But behind the light banter, he was worried. A German civilian, an outsider, working in Klink's kitchen would make further contact a lot more difficult. Normally the solution would be to arrange for LeBeau to get the job, but this time it wasn't an option.

"Very funny. Jolly joker," grumbled Schultz. He turned his back on Hogan, and adopted a tone of kindly deference. "_Fräulein_, there are some very good cooks in Hammelburg, and I will find the best one I can for you. But I must ask if you have any preference."

"I don't think you're going to find a satisfactory chef in Hammelburg, Schultz," remarked Hogan, with a shrug. "Mademoiselle is used to French cuisine, she's not going to get much joy from pork knuckles and potato dumplings."

"What about _Sauerbraten_?" offered Schultz hopefully. "The cook at the Hauserhof makes the best..."

"Oh, please! The Hauserhof is the only place in Germany where they charge extra if you don't want a side order of salmonella." Hogan pursed his lips, a calculating look in his eye. "I can get you a cook, Schultz," he said suddenly.

"You can't. LeBeau is in the cooler."

"LeBeau's not the only guy round here who knows his way around a chafing dish. You like macaroni and cheese, Mademoiselle?"

"Yes," replied Anne-Marie, without hesitation.

"Colonel Hogan, I cannot allow one of the prisoners to cook for the general," stuttered Schultz feebly. "Klink would have my head, and I have a three-day pass coming up."

Hogan hastened to reassure him. "Klink doesn't have to know. Trust me, Schultz. Have I ever steered you wrong? Well, this week? Well, okay, today?"

"Not today," conceded Schultz, after searching his memory. "Not yet, anyway."

"Well, there you go. We can't let a strange cook take over, or goodness knows what will come out of that kitchen. It has to be someone we know, someone we can trust. Look, Schultz, go and do your other errands in town, and leave everything to me. I'll have it all set up by the time you get back." Hogan put his hand on Schultz's shoulder, and steered him towards the door.

"But..."

"No buts, Schultz. Didn't you just hear Mademoiselle? She's dying for a taste of good old macaroni and cheese. Are you going to tell her she can't have it?"

Schultz shot a pleading glance at Anne-Marie, who returned it impassively. "No," he sighed. "But you will make sure the Kommandant doesn't find out?"

"Believe me, Schultz," said Hogan, "that's the last thing I want."

He pushed Schultz out of the door, and slammed it shut. For ten seconds, he remained leaning against it, then he went back to the window and peeked out.

"Well, that seems to have worked," he murmured.

"Colonel Hogan," said Anne seriously, "what is macaroni and cheese?"

"Don't worry, you'll love it," replied Hogan. After a few moments, he added: "Where did Bloch end up?"

"_Je ne s__ais pas_. He was released from prison when the _Boche_ arrived, but I never heard anything more after that."

Hogan grunted softly. It wasn't satisfactory, but for now it would have to do. He left the window, and sat down opposite her. "Okay. I think I've got a handle on your situation. Now I need to know why you dropped your recognition code to Newkirk. Is it something to do with Project Termite?"

Still wary, she turned the question aside by asking one of her own. "How much do you know about it?"

"We got a look at Wolfert's files, but can't make anything out of them so far," replied Hogan.

"I understand. He has gone to great lengths to keep the details secret, and I have not been able to learn much. But I can give you the outline." She folded her hands, like a schoolgirl about to give a recitation. "The basis of the plan is one simple objective, to destroy or damage, as far as possible, the institutions which are necessary to the Allied war effort, by weakening them from inside. He has agents in your governments, your banks and your industries, in positions where they can spread misinformation, promote inefficiency, waste money and resources. One individual may do little, but the combined effect..."

"Termites." Hogan drew a deep breath. "Give them enough time, and they can bring any structure to the point of collapse."

"It has not reached that point yet," said Anne. "If we act now, it can be stopped before the damage is irreversible. But this may be our only chance. Once the general leaves Stalag 13..."

"Then we'd better make sure we get it right," replied Hogan. "If the Allies have a termite problem, then it looks like we're going into the eradication business."

* * *

_Note: the Stavisky Affair was a financial and political scandal which triggered a major crisis for the French government in 1934. Wikipedia has a comprehensive article on it, for those who want to know more._


	14. Chapter 14

For a couple of minutes, silence lay over the Kommandant's sitting room. Anne-Marie sat back in her chair, her eyes fixed on Hogan, but he could read nothing in her expression.

He pressed his fingertips together, frowning as he concentrated all his thoughts on the implications of Project Termite. Finally, he spoke. "What's in the dossier Wolfert's got in his briefcase? We managed to get into the safe and grab photos of it, but it's in some kind of weird script, and we can't make any sense out of it. It looks like Germanic runes."

"It is a modern version of them," said Anne. "It is also in code, for additional security. From conversations I have overheard between him and his aides, I believe it is his master file, and contains the details of all his agents - their names, and where they have been placed, and the contacts from whom they receive their instructions. Not all of them are German. He used to spend time at certain prisoner of war camps, talking to some of the Allied prisoners."

"Recruiting?" Hogan's jaw tightened. He kept a special kind of contempt in reserve for Allied soldiers who threw in their lot with the Nazis.

"Possibly. But it came to an end, after an inspection party from the authorities in Switzerland arrived at one of the camps while he was still there. He was very concerned about what they might include in their report, and whether it could alert the Allies to his presence there."

"So that's why he backed off when I threatened him with the Geneva Convention," murmured Hogan. "I'd love to know what he was up to. I don't suppose you can translate those runes into something comprehensible?"

She shook her head. "I am sorry, Colonel. He does not trust me, or anyone, to that extent."

"Never mind. Once we send our copy of the file to England, they'll find some expert in Germanic languages who can read it." Once again, Hogan's eyebrows drew in. "The trouble is how long that's going to take. The Underground are laying low at the moment, so they can't help us. It means waiting till we can find a safe courier, and every day wasted means Wolfert's termites get to do more damage. If we could at least rough out a letter-by-letter translation, we could transmit it by radio, and give our cryptology experts a head start."

A tiny spark kindled in Anne's eyes. "He has a notebook. It has the key to the runic alphabet in it. It may even have the code as well. After three years, he no longer needs it, as he knows it by heart. But he keeps it as an _aide_-_mémoire_."

Hogan leaned forward. "Could we get hold of it?"

"He never lets it out of his sight," Anne replied. "He even sleeps with it under the mattress, and he is a very light sleeper."

"In that case, we'll have to find some way to divert his attention from it," said Hogan. "We'll need to make sure he stays at Stalag 13 for an extra couple of days, to give us a shot at it. Think you can help with that?"

Her colour rose slightly. "Not for long. One day, maybe two. He will want to go over the plan, after his discussions with the Führer, but he does not need to go back to Berlin. He can work on it anywhere, even here."

"And if he was working on it, he'd have his little codebook handy?"

"Always."

"Then we're in with a chance." Hogan stood up, and went over to the stove, where he paused, thinking. "I don't know yet how we're going to do it," he said. "So right now I can't tell you what to expect. But one of my men will be in the kitchen, so if I don't get the chance to talk to you again, he'll pass on any messages."

"I understand," said Anne. "If there is anything I can do to help..."

He didn't let her finish. "You've already done more than enough. It's safer for you if you're not directly involved in any of this. Safer for Louis, as well," he went on quickly, cutting off any argument. "If you're implicated, he'll be the next one in Wolfert's sights. I'm not prepared to take the risk, for either of you. You can help by playing along with whatever happens, but that's it."

Just as he had expected, the mere hint of any danger to LeBeau's safety was enough. "Does he know?" she whispered, after a moment.

"He knows about Nightingale," replied Hogan gravely. "But how he feels about it is more than I can tell you."

"Is it possible that I could..." The question faltered, and fell away half-asked. "Will you tell him?" she asked instead.

Had she been looking at him, she might have noticed the infinitesimal softening of his expression; but she couldn't have missed the warmth in his voice as he replied. "I'll make sure he understands. That's a promise."

He rolled the stove aside to expose the tunnel entrance, and with a final look, and a reassuring smile, he went down the ladder into the darkness below.

As he hastened back along the tunnel, his mind was working overtime, trying to figure out how to get his hands on the notebook, without putting Anne-Marie in the firing line. But his concentration was broken by a murmur of sound echoing along the tunnel walls, which gradually resolved into speech.

"...the Gestapo have been investigating your participation at a Strength Through Joy camping weekend which took place at Arkona in August of 1937. We were very interested to learn that during those two days, you became very friendly - let us call it that - with a certain Fräulein Sperling, known to her associates as Flossie. The police have several other names for this woman. What can you tell me about her?"

The voice, familiar and foreign both at once, had its usual disorienting effect. Carter had entered into his role with his customary thoroughness. He was good. Sometimes he was almost too good. This was one of those times; it almost seemed as though his own personality had been evicted, leaving a stranger in charge.

As Hogan reached the alcove where the telephone exchange had been installed, Newkirk met his eye, and winked. Carter, however, didn't break character for a moment.

"You say you did not go to Arkona in 1937?... I see. Where were you?... You can't remember? What kind of an alibi is that?... Yes, of course you need an alibi. This is Germany. Everyone needs an alibi." He glanced up at Hogan, who made a winding-up gesture. "Your story is highly suspicious. We will have to investigate further, Colonel Fink...What did you say? Klink, with a K? Ah, I see. It appears we may have our wires crossed, and you are in fact not involved, this time... No, not at all. Sorry for the inconvenience. _Heil Hitler_."

And in an instant, the stranger vanished, as Carter's features fell back into their usual good-natured lines.

"All sorted, Colonel?" asked Newkirk.

"Hardly. We've got work to do," replied Hogan. "Come on." He headed for the radio room, followed by one of those small arguments which frequently arose out of nothing.

"And just what kind of a name is Flossie?"

"I dunno. It was the first thing that came into my head. My grandma had a cat called Flossie, so..."

"Oh, I'm sure it's quite appropriate, for a cat. But when it comes to disreputable women..."

"Well, how am I supposed to know? I never met any disreputable women. Anyhow, it worked, didn't it? Boy, Klink practically squeaked all the way up to high C."

The conversation ceased on reaching the radio room, where Kinch was in the middle of receiving a transmission. Hogan folded his arms, rested his shoulder against one of the posts supporting the roof, and waited.

"Dubois?" he said, as soon as Kinch had finished.

"Uh-huh. He's got nothing on Bloch that we don't already know," replied Kinch. "But the other question you had, about a magistrate - well, Dubois remembered that. It was all over the newspapers at the time. Seems the man in charge of the Pontvallon case - name of Chauvel - had lost his wife a couple of months earlier. As soon as it looked like he was getting somewhere with the inquiry, the police got a tip-off that she didn't die of natural causes. Chauvel was taken off the case, and a few weeks later they found his car in the river, with him inside. Could have been an accident, could have been suicide..."

"Or murder," Hogan finished up. No wonder she hadn't wanted to talk about it.

"Either way, it worked out well for Bloch. The whole case against him collapsed," said Kinch. He glanced questioningly at Hogan. "Dubois didn't say anything about Chauvel having a daughter," he added.

Hogan's eyes narrowed slightly, turning from Kinch to Carter, and then to Newkirk, who shrugged. "We're none of us completely daft. Is that why she got herself mixed up with Bloch's little lot, to clear her dad's name?"

"That's about the size of it," replied Hogan. "And one thing led to another, which is why she's now in a position to help us put Project Termite out of business."

"You've got a plan, Colonel?" said Kinch.

"Not yet. But I'm working on it." Hogan straightened up. "My office, in ten minutes, for a briefing. I just need to have a quick word with Addison first."

"Addison?" The query came simultaneously, in three separate voices

"Yep," replied Hogan briskly, as he started up the ladder leading to the barracks. "Gotta find out if he knows how to make macaroni and cheese. If he doesn't, we're in real trouble."

* * *

_Notes: there are at least two candidates for the modern runic alphabet used by Wolfert - Guido von List's "Armanen runes", devised (or, according to von List, "revealed") in the early 20th century; and a system proposed in 1934 by Karl Maria Wiligut. _


	15. Chapter 15

"Gosh. Poor Louis," said Carter.

Hogan had just finished giving his men an edited version of Anne-Marie's past, as he understood it. As a matter of course, he'd avoided mentioning LeBeau; his part in the story had no bearing on the current problem. But Carter's remark didn't surprise him. He could see it reflected in Kinch's eyes, and in the unusual gravity of Newkirk's expression.

"So how are we going to get a look at this notebook of Wolfert's, Colonel?" asked Kinch.

"I'm still working on it," replied Hogan, frowning.

"Is there any chance she could get hold of it?"

"I don't want her involved. Or not directly, anyway. If Wolfert were to find out that she's been working against him all along - well, who knows how he might react?"

Newkirk shook his head. "I think I can answer that, Colonel. He'd turn on her, just like that."

"Then he'd go looking for her contacts," added Hogan grimly. "And the first person he'll go after will be LeBeau, and he knows exactly where to find him. It's not worth the risk."

He folded his arms, and paced slowly from the window to the door of his office. "But we might be able to use her as a diversion," he went on. "Wolfert's obsessed with keeping Project Termite under wraps. That's why the dossier's not just written in code, but in an alphabet that needs a specialist in ancient Germanic languages to make sense of it. It probably even explains why he carried the file all the way to Paris and back. He doesn't trust his own staff enough to leave it in Berlin. So if there's one thing he's going to guard with his life, it's the notebook containing the key to both the code and the script."

"That's going to make things tricky," said Newkirk.

"So what we need to do is create the illusion that something else is at risk - something, or someone, he cares about as much as Project Termite." Hogan cocked an eye at Carter, who was sitting on the lower bunk looking as innocent as a curate at a church picnic. "I wonder..." he murmured.

Carter blinked at him. "Why are you looking at me like that, Colonel?" he asked uneasily.

"I was just thinking about something you said when you were on the phone to Klink," replied Hogan. "Something that goes right to the heart of the matter."

"Really?" Carter flushed, but tried to adopt an air of nonchalance. "Well, I was just talking off the top of my head."

"And nobody's better at that than you," said Newkirk. "What was it he said, Colonel?"

Hogan just grinned. "Where's Addison?"

He opened the door, and strolled out of the office. Addison was waiting for orders, dressed in German civilian clothes with his uniform jacket over the top, and enduring with commendable stoicism the ill-concealed mirth of his fellow prisoners.

"Ready to go?" asked Hogan, surveying him with a lurking twinkle in his eyes.

"Sir," replied Addison. He didn't look happy.

"Good. Schultz is due back from town any time now. You meet him at the motor pool, so it looks like you came back with him. He'll take you over to report to Klink - you've got your ID papers, right?"

Addison held up the documentation. "What do I do if Klink recognises me?"

"Like that's going to happen," sniggered Carter.

"He won't," said Hogan. "He's never seen you out of uniform, and you don't do much to attract attention, so he's probably never really noticed you up till now. The one thing you can rely on with old Eagle Eyes is that he always sees exactly what he expects to see. If he's told you're the assistant cook from the Adlerhof, he'll assume that's where he's seen you before."

Addison seemed unconvinced, but Hogan went on without giving him a chance to argue. "As soon as you get a chance to talk to Anne-Marie alone, I need you to ask her a couple of questions. Firstly, I want to know who Wolfert reports to - who his direct superior is, and who else in the High Command knows what he's up to. As well as that, ask her if she can remember the dates of some of Wolfert's visits to POW camps."

"How will I get the answers to you?"

"Use the Boy Scout method," replied Hogan. "Tell Schultz you need some things from LeBeau's store cupboard, and send him over with a list."

"Okay. I mean, yes, sir. Anything else?"

"Just keep your ears open, stay out of trouble, and don't forget your cover. Wolfert's going to be anxious to get back, so we can expect to see him here some time tonight, and he may expect a late dinner. What's on the menu?"

"No idea," growled Addison; then as a disgruntled afterthought, he added, "...sir."

"Colonel, it's nearly six hours' driving to Berchtesgaden," observed Kinch. "You really think Wolfert will turn around and drive straight back?"

"Unless Hitler invites him to stay over, and he can't get out of it," said Hogan. "Think about it, Kinch. Anne-Marie's in Klink's quarters. LeBeau's scarcely thirty yards away, in the cooler. The only available chaperone is Klink. So Addison better have a late dinner ready."

All eyes turned to the reluctant cook, who sighed. "Okay, I guess I can come up with something."

"Best stick to what you know," said Newkirk. "Maybe you could feed him whatever it was you had planned for us poor blighters."

"Forget it, Newkirk," Addison replied sourly. "Corned-beef hash is way too good for any Kraut general."

Hogan chuckled. "Play nice, Addison. Remember, whatever you serve up, Anne has to like it as well, and she's fussy about her food." The interpreter's name, even if it wasn't the real one, came naturally to his lips. She was no longer just the mistress of an SS officer; she'd passed the test.

Walters, who was keeping watch at the door, interrupted at this point: "Schultz is just coming through the gate."

"Okay, action stations," said Hogan. "You all know what to do."

His men responded at once. Snatching up bundles of clothes in need of washing, they left the barracks in a noisy rabble, and headed for the prisoners' laundry area behind Barracks 6. From there, a few of them would start stringing clothes-lines in every direction, in deliberate contravention of regulations; and while all the goons in sight were busy remonstrating with them, Addison would be free to slip unnoticed into the motor pool enclosure.

Newkirk, of course, was still restricted to barracks. As his mates filed out, he handed Carter a few extra garments. "Do us a favour, give these a scrub while you're about it," he murmured. "Don't overdo the starch."

He followed the laundry party as far as the door, and he and Hogan watched as the boisterous crowd disappeared around the end of the barracks. A few minutes later, Schultz hove into view, half-ushering, half-following an immovably stolid Addison towards the Kommandantur.

"Think he's going to be all right on his own in there, Colonel?" said Newkirk.

"Yeah. But I think I'll listen in, just in case." Hogan headed for his office, and plugged in the coffee pot.

"Sergeant Schultz reporting, _Herr Kommandant_."

"Yes, I can see that, Schultz. And this is...?"

"This is..." Schultz faltered into silence.

"My name is Berner," said Addison. "Here is my identity card. Sergeant Schultz told me you need a cook."

"Ah, yes." Klink pushed his chair back, with the familiar squeak of casters against the floor. "Did he explain about our very important guest?"

"Some general or other, he said."

"Yes, I am not at liberty to disclose his name, because his presence here is top secret," Klink went on. "So I must impress on you the need for total discretion. " He paused, then added, "You know, you look very familiar. I'm sure we've met before."

Schultz uttered an odd hiccough, as if he'd just accidentally swallowed a rancid olive, stone and all.

"I work at the Adlerhof," replied Addison gravely. For a novice, he was doing pretty well.

"Oh, of course, that accounts for it," said Klink. "I've often dined at the Adlerhof. It's a fine restaurant, one of the best in Hammelburg. You know, it's very generous of you to give up your time and come all the way out here to provide for one of our military commanders in his time of need."

"Thank you," said Addison. "My terms are, payment in advance."

"Ah...well...that's between you and General...I mean..."

"In cash."

There was a moment of silence, before Klink muttered, "I'll just get it out of the safe."

Newkirk chuckled. "Seems we don't have to worry about Addison, Colonel." He glanced at Hogan curiously. "You still haven't told us what it was Carter said that was so clever."

"I haven't, have I?" said Hogan. He unplugged the coffee pot. "That's because I don't know whether it will actually work, and I won't be sure until I get answers to those questions I gave Addison. Especially the first one. I need to know who Wolfert's boss is."

"Well, he's SS, isn't he? So going up the chain of command..."

"It ought to be Himmler, but I've got doubts," murmured Hogan. "London told us he's pretty much a free agent. But there's no such thing as a free agent in Germany these days. Everyone's got somebody looking over their shoulder. Or, as Carter put it..."

"Everyone needs an alibi," Newkirk finished the sentence with him. "Blimey, Colonel, what have you got in mind?"

But Hogan wasn't prepared to show his hand yet. "Wait till we get word from Addison."

It took some time for that message to arrive; in fact, the laundry party beat Schultz by about ten minutes.

"Boy, Schultz, you look real grumpy," said Carter, looking up from the shirt he was ironing. "What's up?"

"What's up is Addison," grumbled Schultz. "First he sends me to the officers' mess to requisition a chicken and a kilo of potatoes. Now he decides he needs some of LeBeau's seasonings, so I have to come all the way over here. And when I asked him why he couldn't just use what was already there, he almost bit my head off."

"Well, that's the trouble with your _chief de kewsine_ types, isn't it?" remarked Newkirk. "It's the culinary artistry coming out in him. He'll be as bad as LeBeau before long."

"Or as good," said Hogan. "What did he ask you to get, Schultz?"

"He gave me a list," Schultz produced a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket, held it half an inch from his nose, and squinted at it. "Now let me see...he wants...some girls?"

"Him and me both, Schultzie," chortled Newkirk.

Hogan tweaked the list from Schultz's fingers, and perused it himself. "Garlic, Schultz, not girls. Garlic, paprika, nutmeg, and some lard, if there is any."

"No lard," said Kinch, rummaging in LeBeau's storage locker. "There's some _Butterschmalz_, though. Maybe he can use that."

He found the requested items and passed them to Schultz, who grasped them with one hand, almost dropping his rifle. "_Danke_. I had better not keep him waiting," he said.

"You're right, Schultz. Otherwise he might really take your head off," replied Hogan, suppressing a grin at the idea of the placid, innocuous Addison going into a temperamental rage.

As soon as the door closed, he handed the note to Carter, with a warning: "Don't overheat it this time."

"Boy, you start one little fire in the barracks, and nobody ever lets you forget," complained Carter, as he pressed the iron over the paper to reveal the message written in vinegar on the back. Then he gave it back to Hogan, who read it through with a gleam of satisfaction, and the beginnings the confident grin his men knew so well.

"I was right," he said. "Wolfert's SS, but he doesn't report to Himmler, not even indirectly. He takes his orders straight from the Führer."

"How does that help us get a look at the code book, Colonel?" asked Newkirk.

"Think about it," replied Hogan. "If Himmler had the slightest suspicion that one of his generals was making strategic plans with Hitler, and leaving him out of the conversation, what would he do?"

"He'd move heaven and earth to find out what was going on," said Kinch.

"Exactly." Hogan's eyes twinkled as he put his hand on Carter's shoulder. "That's how we get to him. Tomorrow morning, General Wolfert is going to get a surprise visit from the Gestapo."


	16. Chapter 16

Addison's temporary assignment had one consequence which had been overlooked by everyone, even Hogan.

"Look, it's just corned beef and potatoes, in a frying pan. How hard can it be?" said Newkirk. "Get on with it, Carter."

"Me? No way, pal." Carter pushed his chair back from the table, where the ingredients for the main meal of the day reposed in pristine splendour. "If it's so darned easy, why can't you do it?"

"Because I have to finish mending this bleedin' overcoat, don't I?" replied Newkirk, with a flick of the black fabric he was stitching. "Which I wouldn't have to, if you hadn't dived into a bramble patch in the woods, the last time you wore it."

"Well, what was I supposed to do? There was a patrol, I had to take cover. It wasn't like I did it for fun, 'cause it sure wasn't that. It took days to get all the thorns out."

"What's the problem, Carter?" said Hogan, coming out of his office in time to catch the end of the story.

Kinch answered on Carter's behalf. "We've got four tins of Red Cross corned beef, and a heap of potatoes, Colonel, and nobody will admit to knowing what to do with them. Did you really have to send Addison over to Klink's quarters before he made dinner?"

"Are you telling me there's not one man in this barracks who knows how to make a simple corned-beef hash?" demanded Hogan.

"We've all got our talents, Colonel," mumbled Newkirk, as he bit off the end of his thread, "but cooking isn't one of them."

"Apart from LeBeau," added Carter.

Newkirk snorted. "That's questionable."

"Well, it can't be helped. You'll just have to manage," said Hogan. "Treat it like any other mission, one step at a time. Start by peeling the potatoes. Once that's done, we'll plan our next move."

Carter sighed, and took up the paring knife. "Well, I guess I can do that, anyway."

"Have you got everything figured out, Colonel?" asked Kinch.

"I think so." Hogan poured himself a cup of coffee, and grimaced at the first bitter mouthful. "The trouble is, it's not just getting hold of Wolfert's notebook. It's making sure he doesn't raise twenty kinds of hell over the Gestapo intrusion. But I think I know how we can pull it off. Walters, watch the door."

He drew a sheet of paper from his pocket; the note Addison had sent earlier. "Okay, Carter, you know what you have to do. These are the dates you're to ask Wolfert to account for. You'd better have 'em written down. Real Gestapo men aren't in the habit of forgetting important details at critical moments."

Carter, with the knife in one hand and a potato in the other, made a vague attempt to find a third hand to write with, until Kinch took pity on him, and produced a notebook and pen from his pocket: "It's okay, Carter, I got it."

"Thanks," murmured Carter. He frowned over the potato for a few seconds. "How long do I have to keep Wolfert out of the office, Colonel?"

"Five minutes should do it," replied Hogan. "But once you leave, that's when things get dicey. If Wolfert's the man I think he is, he's not going to sit down under a Gestapo interrogation. Remember, he's got friends in powerful places. He'll be on the phone as soon as you're out the door, so any calls he makes will have to be intercepted. Newkirk, seeing you can't leave the barracks, that's your job. How's Carter's outfit coming on?"

"Just about done, sir." Newkirk shook the coat out, and held it up for inspection. "And a thoroughly decent bit of work, if I do say so myself. Just stand up a minute, Carter, and let's see how it looks."

"Schultz is coming," said Walters over his shoulder. A few seconds later he stepped back, opening the door to admit the visitor.

Hogan sighed. "Now what, Schultz? Is Addison bullying you again?"

"No, Colonel Hogan, he just sent me over to tell you...why is Carter wearing a trench coat?"

"They're coming back," replied Newkirk, straightening Carter's lapels with a firm tug. Then he stood back, regarding the garment with a meditative pucker of his lips, and a slight sideways tilt to his head.

Schultz joined him, tilted his own head in imitation, and after a few moments gave his opinion: "Makes him look like Gestapo."

"We'll bear that in mind, Schultz," said Hogan quickly, cutting off the affronted protest he saw in Carter's face. "What was the message from Addison?"

"Oh, he says not to expect him back here tonight. General Wolfert rang from Berchtesgaden. He will arrive back at Stalag 13 very late, maybe not before midnight, and Addison will have to stay on duty in case the general wants food when he arrives. If he comes back to the barracks so late, one of the other guards might see him, and it would be very hard to explain what he was doing in the Kommandant's quarters. I'm not sure I understand it myself."

Hogan, with perfect composure, proceeded to enlighten him. "Well, it's like this, Schultz. You see, Addison's job is actually..."

"No, don't tell me." Schultz held up his hand. "I don't want to know."

Hogan shrugged. "Okay, have it your way. Well, if he's not coming home, where's he sleeping tonight?"

"In Captain Gruber's quarters," replied Schultz, in a deeply disapproving tone. "Gruber is still in the hospital, recovering from having his appendix removed, so his room is free."

"Hey, nice break for Addison," remarked Kinch. "As long as you changed the sheets, Schultz. We don't want him catching anything from Gruber and bringing it back here."

"What would he catch from Gruber?"

"German measles?" suggested Carter.

"Very funny." Schultz uttered a low-pitched grunt. "If Gruber finds out a prisoner has been sleeping in his bed, he will not be happy."

"He's not going to find out, Schultz. Who's guarding Addison tonight?" said Hogan, a gleam in his eye.

"Nobody," growled Schultz. "There will be a guard on the door as normal. I offered to stay in the kitchen, but the lady said she would rather I did not."

"Well, Schultz, if she's not worried, why should you be?" replied Hogan. "After all, it's not like Addison can't be trusted. Of course, you could always go to the Kommandant about it, but then you'd have to explain how it came about that, instead of a German cook, you brought him an American soldier."

"You know, they say it's quite nice in Russia this time of year," added Newkirk. "Some places the snow's not more than three feet deep. Practically tropical, it is."

"Oh, please, Colonel Hogan." Schultz closed his eyes, shuddering. "At least, promise me Addison is not up to any monkey business."

"You have my word on it, Schultz. Addison's not up to anything that doesn't have my full approval," declared Hogan, straight-faced.

Schultz peered at him suspiciously. "All right then," he muttered at last. He went to the door, turned back for one more searching look, then grumbled under his breath and left.

"Colonel, why'd you ask him who was on guard?" said Kinch.

Hogan didn't respond at once; his eyebrows drew in a little, as if he were debating with himself. "Well, why not?" he murmured. "It's a perfect opportunity to clue her up on the plan, so she knows what to expect. Plus there's something else we need to take care of." He broke off, the frown deepening.

Kinch and Newkirk exchanged glances. "What are you thinking, sir?" asked Newkirk.

"Say we get this information off to London, and they break up Project Termite before it really gets going," said Hogan slowly. "Wolfert's run the show by himself all along, so there's no way he'll be able to shift the blame onto anyone else. You know what Hitler does with generals who fail?"

"We sure do, Colonel," replied Kinch. "Wolfert's history, the minute word gets back."

"And good riddance to him," added Newkirk.

"Uh-huh. And what happens to his staff?" Hogan's gaze moved around, observing as each of his men, even Carter, realised what he was getting at.

"What are we going to do about it, Colonel?" said Kinch.

"That's what I've been trying to figure out." Hogan folded his arms, and rested his shoulder against the corner post of one of the bunks. "Trouble is, we can't take any chances on Wolfert getting wise to us, or to her. If she disappears from Stalag 13, her cover's blown, and probably ours as well. Once Project Termite's been taken care of, Wolfert's no longer a threat, but until then, there's not a lot we can do. And by that time, she'll be back in Berlin, out of reach of any help we could give her."

"So what are you saying, Colonel? We're not just going to cut her off, are we?" Newkirk's face flushed, and his eyes brightened with indignation.

"No." Hogan straightened up, and squared his shoulders. "That's not what we do. We can't pull her out right now, and when the time comes to make a run for it, she's going to be on her own. But we can make sure that before she leaves Stalag 13, she's got whatever she'll need to give them the slip - identity papers, money, contacts. If we can't do anything else, we can at least give her a fighting chance. And tonight, before Wolfert gets back, may be our only opportunity."

"So you're going to pay another call on Mademoiselle?" said Kinch.

For a few seconds, Hogan considered; then his expression cleared as he came to a decision. "You know what, Kinch? I think I'll send someone else this time."


	17. Chapter 17

_She sure doesn't eat much_, thought Addison, regarding the general's interpreter with a critical eye.

He thought he'd put up a good dinner, although his original plan to make fried chicken had been frustrated. The two birds Schultz had brought from the mess kitchen were way too tough for that, even setting aside his doubts about what species of fowl they actually were. Instead, he'd racked his memory in search of the recipe for his grandmother's famous chicken stew; all he could remember was that, for a lifelong teetotaller, Grannie put an awful lot of red wine in it. So he'd raided the Kommandant's wine collection, and found a bottle shoved right to the back. It was real old, but, it didn't seem to have gone off or anything. Probably Klink had forgotten it was there. Anyway, he'd never miss it.

As far as the other ingredients were concerned, he went by guesswork; but he was pretty darned pleased with how it turned out, and he felt vaguely insulted when she merely picked at it. He didn't say anything, of course. In fact, between his customary taciturnity and her innate diffidence, scarcely a word had passed between them during the whole time he'd been there. But it could have been worse. If Addison hadn't had the forethought to send a generous helping over to the VIP hut, Klink might well have invited himself to dinner. Any amount of embarrassed silence was preferable.

Nevertheless, the temporary cook was glad to retreat to the kitchen, put the coffee percolator on, and start washing the dishes. He was keeping his thoughts to himself, at least in part due to loyalty to a friend; but he was stumped as to what Louis ever saw in that dame.

Not so much as a flicker of disapproval showed when he brought the coffee into the sitting room, a few minutes later. He placed it on the little occasional table beside her. "Can I get you anything else, ma'am?"

"No. Thank you."

He turned to go back to the kitchen, then stopped. The stove which stood above the tunnel entrance had started to move, swivelling out of the way to allow ingress. Addison glanced at the interpreter. "That'll be Colonel Hogan," he said, in case she needed reassurance. But she didn't look nervous; the sudden flush of deep pink which coloured her face spoke of another emotion entirely, and the visitor who had called it forth wasn't Hogan.

"What are you doing here, LeBeau?" asked Addison, staring at the little Frenchman.

"Colonel Hogan sent me," said LeBeau. "I have a message for..." His voice, lacking the drive of full awareness, fell away to nothing. His eyes had found Anne-Marie, and for now there was nothing which could take his attention away from her.

Addison waited for a few seconds, gazing from LeBeau to Anne and back again. "Uh...I think I left something on the stove," he murmured at last. Then, as neither of them showed any sign of having heard, he cleared his throat, and edged towards the door. "Yep, I'll just...I'd better go and...uh...do something...somewhere else."

He slipped away into the kitchen, wondering how he'd managed, without knowing it, to sign on for the job of third wheel. It was just as well there was still some leftover wine. He had a feeling he'd be stuck out here for quite a while.

Louis didn't even notice he'd gone. His gaze remained fixed on Anne, his Anne, who he had loved so much, and who had given him such grief in return. For the first time, however, he found himself contemplating that grief without the hard shell of anger and contempt which had formed around it. It hurt all the more for it, as much as when the wound had been new.

An eternity passed before he managed to connect to his voice, and even then it didn't feel as if it belonged to him. "_Le colonel_ has a plan to get the code. He says...he will..._ah, chérie, non, mais non_."

He took her in his arms, and drew her to the couch, and by the time she regained the composure which had so suddenly deserted her, any lingering resentment in his heart had been dissolved and washed away. For a while he just held her, soothing her distress with gentle caresses and incoherent murmurings. But presently she sat up, and stammered out a husky apology.

Louis hushed her at once. "I'm the one who should be sorry. What I said to you was unforgivable."

"No, never, Louis. Anyone would have thought...Did Colonel Hogan tell you?"

"_Oui_. But I should not have needed to be told. I should have known." He brushed a lock of hair back from her forehead, with a slight frown as he noticed the fine lines around her eyes. She looked older than she should; some of the fine strands still clinging to his fingers had faded since the last time he'd been close enough to touch them. "I didn't understand, but I could have tried to."

She didn't answer him, but her fingers closed tightly on the edge of his jacket, and he held her even closer, as if by doing so the terrible gulf of mistaken belief which had separated them for so long would turn out to be no more than a trick of memory.

After a little while, she lifted her head from his shoulder, and tried to wipe away the tear-stains from her cheeks. "I must look terrible," she whispered.

"Never anything but beautiful," replied Louis. In fact he thought she looked poorly; not exactly ill, but too thin, and too washed out. Instinctively, his thoughts turned to the kind of nurture he was most accustomed to giving. "Have you eaten?"

"A little. Your friend brought me something. And he made coffee, but it must be nearly cold now."

Louis tasted it, and grimaced. "Typical. Americans – they can't cook, and they can't make coffee. Excuse me, _chérie_."

He hastened into the kitchen, where Addison, reclining in a chair with his feet on the table, was deeply engrossed in an old and well-worn novel he'd borrowed from Klink's bookshelves. "Everything okay, LeBeau?" he asked.

"Apart from your coffee, which is execrable. Is that the 1900 Bordeaux?" said LeBeau, as his eyes fell on the bottle standing next to Addison's glass.

"Yeah, I thought it'd do for the chicken, even if it was too old for drinking. But it ain't so bad."

"You used Klink's bottle of Chateau Verlaine to cook with? The wine he's been saving for the end of the war?" LeBeau stared at him, flabbergasted.

"Uh, yeah. Was that wrong?" said Addison.

"Where is it?" His culinary instinct suddenly in the ascendant, LeBeau turned towards the heavy iron casserole still standing on the hob, its contents simmering. Under Addison's deeply apprehensive gaze, he found a spoon, lifted the lid and sampled. His eyes closed, and a soft sigh emanated from his lips.

"_Formidable_," he murmured. "I forgive you for the coffee."

"She didn't seem to think much of it," remarked Addison.

LeBeau smiled a little, remembering how hard he'd had to work, so long ago, to tempt her appetite. "I will take her a glass of wine. And one for myself."

He returned to the sitting room. Anne had obviously been watching for his return, and his heart gave a slightly louder beat as he met the wistful melancholy in her eyes.

"Here is something much better than bad coffee," he said, in an overly cheerful voice.

She accepted the glass, and took a sip; it seemed to hearten her. "What is the colonel's plan, Louis?" she asked.

"I only know the outline." Louis sat down beside her, and without thinking put his hand on hers. "It starts with the Gestapo."

"The Gestapo? But, Louis..."

"I know. Don't worry. This one's a friend of mine. You'll like him, once you get to know him."

She didn't look convinced. "That will never happen. Once I leave here..."

"Actually, that's another thing," said Louis quickly. "We have to prepare for what happens after you leave. So perhaps you would like to freshen up. You don't want to have your eyes so red and puffy for your photograph."

"Of course, that would not...but, no, Louis, a photograph? Why?"

"For your identity papers." Louis shifted a little, so he was facing her directly, and took both her hands in his. "By tomorrow, we should be able to translate Wolfert's report on Project Termite, and radio the details to our people in London. Once they act on it, Wolfert will be in a lot of trouble, and you won't be safe."

"I know," she said gravely. A tiny crease had formed between her eyebrows. "I have thought about what to do, when that day came, and I planned..." Her voice trailed off, and she bit her lower lip. "I have a gun," she murmured, after a pause. "If it should be necessary..."

"No. Don't even think that." Louis tightened his grip, until his own fingers hurt. "Before you leave, we'll give you whatever you will need to escape. That's what we do. We help people to escape from Germany. Never even think about that again, _chérie_. I couldn't bear it."

After a moment, she gently freed one of her hands, and hesitantly touched his cheek with her fingertips. "Sometimes I have tried to imagine what might have been, if...if things had been different. I never thought I would see you again, but it made me happy for a few minutes, just to pretend. I know it can never be real, _mon ami_. Too much has changed since then. I gave up all hope of that a long time ago. I have no family, no friends, nothing to go back to, when this is over."

"You have friends," said Louis fiercely. "And you have me. Even if it is not the same as we once hoped, you will always have me."

She lowered her gaze, and he had to lean closer, until his forehead almost touched hers, to hear her reply: "You almost make me believe it, Louis. Tell me what I must do, and I will try."


	18. Chapter 18

Well past midnight, General Wolfert's staff car finally turned onto the rough gravel road which descended through the woods towards Stalag 13. The day just ended had been both long and mentally taxing, yet the general, as he gazed out at the passing trees, experienced a kind of exhilaration, as if he were heading for the front line.

It was a long time since he'd felt this way. For months, even as he worked on the final details of Projekt Termiten, he had constantly been troubled by a vague sense of shame. This was no way to engage in warfare; to attack the enemy from within, using their own people, creating traitors by means of bribery or blackmail, was the work of spies, not of soldiers. The son of generations of military men, the descendant of heroes who had served their country, brought glory to their names, and given their lives on the battlefields of Europe, should have no part in it.

But his misgivings had been laid to rest during his long interview with Adolf Hitler. Even though Wolfert didn't particularly admire the man, he couldn't deny it was an honour to have the leader of the Third Reich take an intelligent, approving interest in his work. It was almost like a father's blessing when the Führer sent him on his way, with one brief instruction: "Go ahead."

Now, as the car approached the prison camp his thought turned to Anne. How faithfully she had stood by him, through these very difficult years! He had already bestowed his heart, but perhaps it was time to offer her the additional honour of his name. There were advantages to marriage; officers without wives were looked on with disapproval among the High Command. Of course, there would certainly be raised eyebrows if he chose to tie himself to a Frenchwoman, and the daughter of a shopkeeper, at that. But if he took his time, introduced her into a few select social circles, surely they would soon come to accept her. In any case, the thought of taking any other woman as his wife was intolerable.

He frowned a little, reflecting on the chance accident which had brought her back into contact with Louis LeBeau. Of all the details of her past which his Gestapo contacts in Paris had provided, the one matter he'd thought most about was her only serious love affair. He didn't care about the fascist agitator, Bloch; that had been a brief infatuation, a schoolgirl crush, inspired less by the man than by the illusory glamour of his ruthless ideology. But Wolfert had always believed there was something more where the cook from _Le Rossignol_ was concerned. Now at last he'd met the man who, for a time at least, had held Anne's heart.

The car turned in at the gate, and came to a stop in front of the Kommandant's quarters, just as Colonel Klink, alerted by the guards, came hastily from his temporary lodging in the VIP hut to greet him. The last thing Wolfert wanted was another dose of Klink's relentless babbling, but common courtesy to his host required him to be patient.

"Yes, it was a very productive meeting," he said. "But I am sure you will understand that the details cannot be disclosed to anyone."

"Please, General, say no more. I can assure you, I wouldn't dream of prying into such high-level affairs. If there's one thing I know, it's how to mind my own business. You can rely on my absolute discretion. I've already dismissed the whole thing from my..."

"Yes, thank you, Colonel Klink," interrupted Wolfert. "If you will excuse me, it has been a very long day."

"Of course, General. If you should need anything, please don't hesitate to send for me. Good night, and pleasant dreams." The Kommandant saluted, simpered nervously, and took himself off.

Wolfert dismissed his driver, and went into his borrowed quarters, barely acknowledging the salute of the guard on duty. He paused for a moment inside the vestibule. The lights were still on, and Anne was curled up on the couch, fast asleep. His heart made an unaccustomed leap, as he realised she had waited up for him.

He leaned over to kiss her forehead, and her eyelids flickered open. "_Mais...ah, c'est toi_." For the first time, she used the informal term of address, and he felt a surge of tenderness.

"Hush, dearest," he murmured. "You should be in bed."

"I wanted to wait for you." Softly as she spoke, he had no trouble hearing her.

"And now I am here. You must learn to consider your own well-being," he replied. "Let me help you..."

He broke off, as the kitchen door swung open. "Who are you?" he demanded, glaring at the intruder.

"I am the cook you had brought in from Hammelburg, _Herr General_." If the man's words were civil, his attitude was far from it. "I thought you might want a meal, after your long journey."

"Yes, very well," snapped Wolfert. "Bring me some food, and then go away. Come, Anne, you must go to bed."

With an arm around her waist, he took her to the bedroom. "Would you rather sleep alone tonight?" he asked. "I have a few things to do before I retire, and I don't wish to disturb you. You need your rest."

"Whatever you think best." She passed a hand across her forehead. "Forgive me, I have a little headache."

"Of course, these past few days have been stressful for you. But you will soon be away from this place. We can leave tomorrow, if you are well enough."

"I will be." She answered just a fraction too quickly, as if trying to convince herself.

He put his fingers under her chin, and turned her face up to the light. "I think not," he said, after a few moments of scrutiny. "It will be no difficulty to stay another day. I have my work with me, and I am sure the Kommandant will be delighted to extend his hospitality." He hesitated, then added, "I know it is an uncomfortable situation, but you needn't fear another insult from your old acquaintance. He will not be released from the cells before we leave. Does that make you feel better, _Liebchen_?"

"_Oui_." She lowered her eyes. "You take such care of me. Thank you."

"I hope to always take care of you. Sleep well, my dear." He kissed her fingertips, and withdrew.

The cook had just laid a covered plate on the dining table; at Wolfert's arrival he gave a slight bow, and turned to leave the room.

"You seem quite young and fit, for a civilian," remarked Wolfert.

"That's what I keep telling them at the recruitment office," replied the cook, with a scowl. "But they won't take me. They say I'm not army material. Just because a man's got an artificial leg..." He clomped off to the kitchen, muttering under his breath.

Wolfert sat at the table, and lifted the cover from the dish. The heady aroma of a wine-rich sauce rose to his nostrils; nowhere near as fine as the luncheon he'd been invited to share at Berchtesgaden, but far superior to the miserable excuse for food slopped out in the officers' mess the day before. But he replaced the cover. There was something else he wanted to do first.

The guard outside snapped to startled attention as the general flung the door open, and asked curtly, "Where is the solitary confinement block?"

"The cooler? Over there, _Herr General_," said the soldier. "Just past the recreation hall. You can't miss it."

It would, indeed, have been difficult to overlook. The only solid structure in the entire camp, it squatted in its own little enclosure, separated from the rest of the compound by a high wire fence. One man stood before the gate, a second at the door of the low concrete building.

"I wish to speak to the prisoner," said Wolfert. Both the gate and the door were hastily flung open for him to pass through; then the guard on the gate resumed his watch, while the other stood aside as the general went inside, then started to follow him. He stopped in his tracks, as Wolfert threw one word at him. "Alone."

"_B-bitte, Herr General_," he stammered, after a few moments, "the regulations state that...that..." But his protest fell apart, at the piercing glare which was turned on him.

"What is your name?" asked Wolfert, after a pause just long enough to reduce the presumptuous oaf to a quivering jelly.

"Ri-Ri-Ritter, _Herr General_."

"Your attention to the regulations is exemplary. I will certainly mention it to the Kommandant. Return to your post."

The unhappy Ritter did as he was ordered, and Wolfert proceeded down to the lower level. From the foot of the stairs, he could see the Frenchman in his cell, huddled under the thin grey blanket, apparently sleeping. Wolfert studied the hunched outline for a few seconds, before approaching and giving the door a rattling shake which echoed from the walls. "_Achtung_!"

The prisoner woke with a jerk which almost landed him on the floor. "_Ah, bon Dieu, qu'est-ce que..._Oh." His expostulations broke off abruptly, as he recognised his visitor.

"Stand up," said Wolfert.

"Why should I?"

"Out of respect for your superior. Although respect is a concept the French mind seems unable or unwilling to comprehend." Wolfert smiled faintly, watching the colour rise in LeBeau's face, and the clenching of his jaw. "You all claim to be so proud of your country, but the truth is, you're nothing but a rabble, too undisciplined to win a war, and too uncivilised to accept defeat. But you lost, corporal, and you must live with the consequences. One of those consequences is that when I issue an order, you will obey."

LeBeau stayed where he was for a few second, before he rose to his feet and took a step forward, meeting Wolfert's gaze with stubborn defiance. Another common, irritating trait among the French; Wolfert let it pass. "So, Monsieur LeBeau," he said. "I have often wished to meet you. You're not at all what I expected. But I don't suppose a woman's first love is ever much like her last, is he?"

"If you can call it that," growled LeBeau. "I can think of another word for it."

"You see, this is exactly what I mean. Your kind doesn't know how to lose graciously." Wolfert gave a soft laugh. "You cling to the past, and rage at others when they embrace the future. Well, the future is here. And where does it find you? In a prison camp, with no prospect of an early release, because you're too stubborn to accept that the world has changed. No wonder she left you behind."

The prisoner didn't reply, but his eyes seemed to grow darker.

"You know, I should thank you," Wolfert went on. "For three years, ever since Anne and I have been together, I have always wondered whether she still had feelings for someone else, someone from her past. Can you imagine? As if a general of the Third Reich needed to worry about an insignificant creature like you." He chuckled again. "You don't see the joke? No, of course you wouldn't. But there's a kind of irony, isn't there? So much time and thought wasted, when all I had to do was bring her face to face with you, and let you do the rest. If she had still cared about you at all, that little outburst of yours would have been enough to end it."

"I am glad to have been of service," muttered LeBeau. "I hope you will both be as happy as you deserve."

"I'll be sure to let you know." Wolfert gazed at him for a few moments longer. "I almost pity you. If only you'd known her better, how differently things might have turned out. Goodbye, Monsieur LeBeau. Enjoy the rest of the war."

He turned away, and went back up the stairs without a backward glance. LeBeau watched him go, sullen and glowering; only when Wolfert disappeared from view did he relax.

"I know her better than you think, _mon General_," he said.

For a few minutes, he sat in silence, his thoughts returning to his brief, sweet reunion with Anne; short as it had been, interrupted by preparations for the undertakings ahead, and shadowed by their mutual, unspoken awareness that it might be their last meeting, yet all the more precious for that very reason. And when he had left her, when at that last moment he had tried to say her name, and his voice had failed, she had touched his lips with her fingertips, and whispered, "_Claire. Je m'appelle Claire_."

Wolfert might believe he had won her heart; but Louis knew better. She had given him something very precious, the most intimate possession she had left, to remember her by. She had given him the name her father had called her.


	19. Chapter 19

"Well, that's the best we can do, Colonel," said Newkirk, stepping back to admire his handiwork. "You think he'll pass?

The target of his scrutiny gazed back with his customary vague anxiety, his eyes disconcertingly magnified by the rimless glasses which formed part of his disguise. Hogan studied him for a few moments, then gave his opinion. "He'll do, once he gets his Gestapo menace going. Kinch, anything happening?"

"Not yet, Colonel," said Kinch over his shoulder, from the door. "Klink's still in the office, probably giving Wolfert a headache. Hold it, there's Schultz, on his way to the cooler with LeBeau's breakfast."

"And LeBeau will make sure he stays out of our way until we're done. Who's on the office door?"

"Looks like Langenscheidt again," replied Kinch. "And Klink's just leaving now. He's heading back towards the VIP hut."

"All right. Hogan squared his shoulders, and looked around at his men. "Kinch, you know what to do. Newkirk, get down to the switchboard, and stand by. Are you ready, Carter?"

"I guess so," mumbled Carter, fidgeting with his black leather gloves, then straightening his belt. He didn't look ready, but then, he never did.

"Then let's go and put the wind up a German general," said Hogan.

* * *

"Wake up, LeBeau. I have brought you something to eat," announced Schultz.

LeBeau raised his head. "I'm not hungry, Schultz. I had the most wonderful meal last night, and I don't want to spoil the aftertaste."

"You had a wonderful meal? In here?"

"Oh, no, Schultz. It was at Chez Balzac, in the sixth _arrondissement_. The _chef _there has a way of preparing _filet mignon _in a black truffle sauce..." LeBeau's eyes grew misty at the thought.

"Black truffle sauce..." echoed Schultz faintly. "Oh, it sounds _wunderbar_. But...wait a minute. You were here last night, in the cooler."

"_Oui, c'est vrai_. But in my dreams, Schultzie..." LeBeau sat up, and gave the guard a sleepy smile. "Good food, good wine, soft music, candlelight, and the best part of all...Marcel's _terrine de chocolat aux fraises pralinées_."

"I don't know what that means," sighed Schultz, "but even hearing the words makes me hungry. Please, LeBeau, start at the beginning, and don't leave anything out."

"Are you sure, Schultz?" LeBeau's lips twitched. "All right, if you insist. Let's begin with the _apéritif..._"

* * *

The prisoners' daily exercise period came in handy for an operation like this one. At any other hour of the day it would have been necessary to provide a diversion, so the guards didn't notice when a Gestapo man, or a Luftwaffe general, or Adolf Hitler, came out of Barracks 2 and marched across the compound in full sight. But the goons got just as bored as the prisoners; more, in fact, as they weren't free to find their own entertainment. So any activity in the yard, even something as simple as a volleyball game between the men of Barracks 3 and 4, was enough to hold their attention. The tower sentries were even making bets on the outcome.

Hogan emerged from the barracks and walked briskly to the Kommandantur. He passed Kinch, who was already loitering at the end of the building, and ascended the steps in a businesslike manner. "Morning, Langenscheidt," he said. "Is the Kommandant in?"

He reached for the doorknob. Langenscheidt, embarrassed but diligent, moved to block the entrance. His voice squeaked with nerves as he replied. "_Es tut mir leid_, Colonel Hogan, but you cannot go in."

"But I need to talk to him. It'll only take a minute."

"He is not there," replied Langenscheidt. "He..."

Hogan gave a scornful chuckle. "Oh, come on, you seriously expect me to fall for that old line? Where else is he gonna be, this hour of the morning?"

"But it is true," insisted Langenscheidt. "The Kommandant is not in his office today, because..."

"Look, Langenscheidt, if there's one thing I know about Colonel Klink, it's that he keeps regular office hours..."

"Excuse me." A sharp, ice-cold voice cut through the argument. Its owner had arrived unobserved, and now stood appraising both guard and prisoner. "I have business in this building. Please stand aside."

Langenscheidt boggled at this new interruption, but rallied. "Nobody is allowed to enter, by order of..." But his words dried up, as he caught sight of the Gestapo warrant disc the man held up for inspection; and after choking, swallowing and choking again, he gave up trying to speak, saluted and stood back to let the visitor pass.

"You're kidding me," Hogan burst out, as soon as the door had closed. "You mean to say the senior POW officer is barred, but the first Gestapo guy to show up is allowed to just waltz right in like he owns the place?"

"Of course. He is Gestapo," replied Langenscheidt, stating the obvious. "But, Colonel Hogan, the Kommandant is..."

"In trouble, of course. Why else would the Gestapo be here?" Hogan moved towards the door. "Which means I need to speak to him right now, before they take him away. I sure won't get a chance afterwards."

Langenscheidt's customary timid civility gave way to near panic at the thought of the senior POW officer barging in on whatever kind of interview was going in the office. "No, please, Colonel Hogan. I am trying to tell you, Kommandant Klink is not here. He is working in the VIP quarters this morning."

Hogan gazed at him, his irritability giving way to righteous indignation. "Well, for crying out loud, why didn't you say so? I'm a busy man, Langenscheidt, I don't have time to hang around. Next time, just tell me straight away instead of beating round the bush." He turned and strolled off towards the VIP hut, leaving the hapless Langenscheidt staring after him.

Kinch had moved in position, just below the window on the other side of the building, ready to slip inside with his camera as soon as the office was empty. If Anne-Marie was right, he would find Wolfert's notebook, containing both the rune language and code for the Project Termite dossier, on the desk; hopefully he'd have enough time to photograph the pages before Wolfert got back. Hogan's part in the operation was to keep Klink out of the way, just as LeBeau was doing with Schultz; and Newkirk was standing by on the switchboard to intercept any phone calls. Everything was in place. Now it was up to Carter to make it work.

* * *

"What is the meaning of this?" Wolfert, sitting behind Klink's desk, looked up as the door flew open, his eyes kindling with anger at the intrusion. "How dare you burst in here without..."

His unexpected visitor cut him short, with chilly equanimity. "_Gruppenführer_ Wolfert, I presume?"

Unaccustomed to being talked over, Wolfert flushed, and his lips thinned. "What business is that of yours?"

In reply, the man produced his warrant disc. "My name is...let us say, Schmidt. You have not answered my question. Are you Paul Wolfert?"

Wolfert stood up, his jaw firming at the deliberate omission of his rank. "How did you know I was here?"

"It is our job to know. Must I ask you a third time to confirm your identity?"

For a few seconds, Wolfert met the glinting blue of his eyes. "Yes, I am _Gruppenführer_ Wolfert," he growled, his teeth almost clenched.

"_Sehr gut_." The man who had called himself Schmidt gave a small, humourless smile. "In that case, we can proceed."

"Proceed?" Wolfert braced his hands on the desk. "What do you mean?"

"I will ask the questions," replied Schmidt, in a voice like a knife scraped across cold glass. "You will confine yourself to answering them."

"I think you are mistaken, Herr Schmidt. I am not answerable to the Gestapo."

"There is only one man in the whole Third Reich who is above our reach. Do you really consider yourself his equal?"

"No, of course not," snapped Wolfert. "But..."

"Because that sounds very much like treason," Schmidt went on, without pausing. "And I'm sure you know what happens to traitors." Once again, he met Wolfert's blazing anger with cool composure. "However, allow me to set your mind at rest. I am not here to interrogate you. Tell me, where might I find your French interpreter, Fräulein Barallier?"

Every muscle of Wolfert's body tensed. "What is your business with my interpreter?"

"I have some questions to put to her, regarding her whereabouts on certain dates within the past year," replied Schmidt.

"There's no need to trouble her with this. I can give you that information."

"I'm sure you can." Once again, the soulless ghost of a smile touched Schmidt's face. "However, I need to hear it from her. She can talk for herself, I assume."

"Certainly," replied Wolfert, through tight lips. "But Mademoiselle Barallier is not here at present."

"I find that very hard to believe. We have observed that wherever you are, she is rarely far away, regardless of whether you need an interpreter or not." Schmidt looked around the office, his gaze coming to rest on the communicating door to the Kommandant's quarters. "What is in there?"

Without waiting for an answer, he strode across, opened the door and passed through. Wolfert uttered a furious curse, and followed him. The draught from the slamming of the door sent a flutter through the papers he had left forgotten on the desk; then they came to rest.

In the Kommandant's sitting room, Mademoiselle, resting on the couch after a late breakfast, sat upright at the sudden incursion on her solitude, then rose to her feet. The loose, soft gown she was wearing had something of the _negligée _about it; but Schmidt, studying her in the same way he might gaze at an insect under a magnifying glass, appeared unmoved.

"Forgive the intrusion, _gnadige Fräulein_," he said, in precisely the same detached tones he had used towards Wolfert. "My name is Schmidt, _Geheime Staatspolizei_. You are required to answer some questions."

Her eyes turned towards Wolfert, who hastened to her side. "Don't be frightened, Anne. This fool thinks he has the authority to question my staff. He is very much mistaken, as he will soon find out"

Schmidt raised his eyebrows. "_Herr Gruppenführer_, may I point out that I have not yet disclosed the nature of my questions. Your interpreter is not yet under investigation. We merely require corroboration of some known facts. However, if you wish us to reclassify her from witness to suspect, that can be arranged."

As before, he countered Wolfert's unspoken, fiery challenge with glacial self-possession. It was the general who gave way first. "Very well. Ask your questions."

Schmidt took off his spectacles, cleaned them carefully with his handkerchief and put them on again; then drew from inside the breast of his coat a small, leather-covered notebook. For a few seconds, which seemed interminable to the incrementally furious Wolfert, the Gestapo man studied his notes.

"On the seventh of October last year, _Fräulein_, you left Berlin," he snapped out at last. "You returned a week later. Where were you during this time?"

Wolfert cut in before she could speak. "She was with me. As a member of my staff, she is required to accompany me on any occasion when I might need an interpreter. As for my location during that time, which is clearly what you are really fishing after, that information relates to intelligence matters which are classified top secret."

"Nothing is secret from the Gestapo," observed Schmidt. "Well, _Fräulein_?"

"I cannot tell you," replied the woman, very softly. Her eyes remained downcast, her manner distant.

"I see," murmured Schmidt, making a note in tiny, almost illegible letters. "You were also absent from Berlin for five days in January of this year. Where did you go?"

"I repeat, that information is classified." Once again, Wolfert took charge. Schmidt's gaze rested on him for a few seconds, then he made another brief notation.

"And the first week in March?" he asked. "Let me guess - classified."

"This is outrageous," exploded Wolfert. "On whose authority are you prying into my affairs?"

"A very high authority," replied Schmidt coolly. "Almost the highest in Germany."

"Is that so?" Wolfert's anger seemed almost to shimmer in the air around him, so intense was the glare he directed at his adversary. "We will see about this."

He picked up the telephone. "This is _Gruppenführer_ Wolfert speaking. Put me through to the office of _Obergruppenführer _Schaub, at Berchtesgaden...Yes, that's right, I did say at Berchtesgaden. I will hold."

It appeared as though Schmidt had not allowed for such a gambit; he looked momentarily taken aback, and glanced from Wolfert to the woman, and back again, then made an attempt to regain the upper hand. "Do you expect me to believe you can place a call to the Führer's adjutant, just like that?"

"I don't expect you to believe anything, Herr Schmidt," said Wolfert, with another smouldering glower. "Nevertheless...Hello? Yes, am I speaking to...? Oh." His tone changed abruptly, and unconsciously he drew himself up. "Forgive me, _mein Führer._ I had no idea you would be... I was hoping to speak to your aide about a small matter...No, really, _mein Führer_, your concern is very flattering, but you are not to be troubled with...Of course, _mein Führer_, if you insist. I have a Gestapo man here, attempting to interrogate a member of my staff...Name of Schmidt, so he says..._Ja, mein Führer_...At once. _Heil Hitler_."

He turned to Schmidt. "He wants to speak to you."

Schmidt took the receiver, in the manner of a man being handed a live grenade with the pin missing. He stared at it, then put it gingerly to his ear. "_Ja_?"

Even Wolfert winced at the explosion of wrath which issued forth in response. The unfortunate recipient flinched, almost dropped the receiver, juggled it back into position, and prepared to endure.

It was not a lengthy admonition, but it was certainly a thorough one. For a few moments after its conclusion, Schmidt stood completely dazed, waiting for the volcano to erupt again. Then, as it appeared he had survived after all, he took a deep breath.

"Uh...yes, well...that seems to answer all my questions," he said.

"I thought it would," replied Wolfert, grimly triumphant. "Now, as I have work to do, perhaps you would be so kind as to remove yourself from my presence. You have already caused me enough inconvenience for one day."

Schmidt blushed. "Of course. Please accept my apologies. Have a nice day. I mean, _heil Hitler_."

He saluted, and made his escape, fast.


	20. Chapter 20

As the morning gave way to afternoon, the brief excitement engendered by the volleyball match, which the boys of Barracks 4 had won handsomely, faded into the torpor of camp routine. The guards on the ground resumed their apathetic patrol; the guards in the towers waited in resigned boredom for their relief, and the prisoners settled down to the more sedentary amusements available to them: reading, playing dominoes or draughts, or exchanging desultory remarks about nothing at all.

Below the camp, however, everything was running at full throttle.

Hogan had allocated to Newkirk the task of rendering the Project Termite documents into Latin letters, trusting to the accuracy of the forger's eye. The next stage, decoding the results, he took on himself. With Kinch standing by at the radio, and Carter running the completed sheets from one place to the next, they were making good progress.

Newkirk, hunched over his pages of runes, had somehow found his way into an unusually deep state of concentration, and the mugs of coffee Carter brought him, one after the other, stood cold and untouched in a row in front of him. But Hogan was running high on a combination of caffeine and pure adrenaline.

The extent of Wolfert's reach shocked him. All along, ever since Anne-Marie had revealed the basic strategy, he'd wondered exactly how effective it could be. There was a limit, after all, to how many prisoners of war the general could send back across the Channel, after flipping them over to the Nazi cause; and of those men, few would be able to find their way into the positions of influence necessary for Project Termite to be effective. Hogan had thought long and hard about it, gradually forming a suspicion which was now being confirmed, piece by piece.

"Damn!" he muttered under his breath.

"What's up, Colonel?" asked Carter. Newkirk, oblivious, kept working; but Kinch met Hogan's eyes with grave disquiet.

"Wolfert wasn't just recruiting agents at those prison camps," said Hogan. "He was digging for information. And he found some pretty serious dirt."

"Like what?"

"Like there's a senior official at Lend-Lease in Washington who's been skimming the funds. The accountant who helped him cover his tracks got drafted, shot down, ended up in Stalag 8. It doesn't seem to have taken much incentive to get the whole story out of him." Hogan tapped the sheet of paper in front of him with his index finger. "Wolfert used that information to blackmail the embezzler into passing information as well as diverting funds towards Wolfert's people in the States."

"Holy cow!" exclaimed Carter in a shocked tone which pierced even Newkirk's absorption.

"And he's not the only one. I've got a dozen of them here - a research scientist working for the Navy Bureau of Ordinance, a diplomat at the British Embassy in Lisbon, one of de Gaulle's junior aides, even a switchboard operator at Combined Operations Headquarters, whose fiancé is in a work camp in Silesia. All of them with secrets they'd do anything to keep, or loved ones they'd do anything to protect, even if it means turning traitor. Those people are the key to making the whole operation work. Each of them is in a position to either pass on a lot of information, or undermine the Allied war effort in a big way."

"How did Wolfert get on to so many of them?" demanded Kinch.

"He doesn't say." Hogan studied the page, as if trying to see what he might have missed. "But he's got agents working for him in at least five POW camps. My guess is, those men keep their ears open, make friends with new prisoners, ask questions about what they did back home, and who they know. As soon as they identify a potential mark, that's when Wolfert moves in and puts the pressure on."

"Well, that just stinks," Carter burst out. "There's just no other word for it."

"Oh, yes, there is," growled Newkirk.

A brief silence followed, then Hogan picked up his pencil. "Let's get this done," he said brusquely.

By evening roll call, the final page had been transmitted. "And not a moment too soon," observed Newkirk, as he took his place in line. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, and added, "I don't know if anyone else has noticed, but we missed lunch."

"Getting a bit peckish, are we, Newkirk?" asked Hogan.

"Not half." Newkirk gave a low chuckle. "Tell you what, I could even fancy that fish stew of LeBeau's."

"I think there's some corned-beef hash left over from last night," suggested Kinch, stretching his back, and tilting his head from side to side to loosen his neck.

Newkirk snorted. "I'm not that bloody hungry."

"Cheer up," said Hogan. "Even if LeBeau has to spend a few more days in the cooler, we'll have Addison back as soon as Wolfert leaves. Which reminds me, as soon as we're dismissed, get back down to the switchboard, and give Wolfert a call. Tell him you're one of Hitler's aides, and say that his little problem with the Gestapo has been sorted out. But for security reasons, tell him he's not to mention the matter to anyone. Not even to the Führer himself. You never know who might be eavesdropping."

"I take it that's to make sure our friend doesn't find out it wasn't actually Hitler he spoke to this morning, right, Colonel?" said Kinch

"Who spoke to Hitler this morning?" Schultz, counting his way along the front row, had arrived just in time to hear this.

"Donald Duck," replied Hogan. From just behind him, Carter gave a muffled quack, and a snigger went along the ranks.

"Very funny," grumbled Schultz, and turned to give his report to the Kommandant.

"Thank you, Schultz. Dismiss the prisoners," said Klink. "Colonel Hogan, I'd like a word with you."

Hogan nodded to his men, and as they dawdled back to the barracks, he gave Klink a friendly grin. "What's up, Kommandant?"

"General Wolfert tells me he will be leaving for Berlin tomorrow morning." The undertone of relief in Klink's voice was palpable. "Now, there remains the matter of LeBeau's punishment. As you know, the general has decided to leave it to my discretion. However, as the infraction concerned a member of his staff, it seems to me that I should allow him to have a say in the matter. I spoke to him about it this morning, and I have to say I'm quite moved by his generosity of spirit."

"Is that right?" Hogan's eyes narrowed.

"Yes, indeed," Klink went on. "He has asked me to show leniency. In fact, he wants LeBeau released from the cooler tomorrow morning, before he and his...Mademoiselle Barallier make their departure. I wouldn't have thought the general would have such a forgiving nature."

"Neither would I," said Hogan, as he speculated on Wolfert's game. He had a pretty good idea what it was. LeBeau was to be released just in time to witness the departure; he would be made to watch as Anne-Marie went out of his life for good.

"Well, it just goes to show, even the SS can have a soft side." Klink tucked his riding crop under his arm. "So LeBeau will be let off the rest of his sentence. But I give you warning, Hogan, this is not a sign of weakness. Your men will continue to experience the same iron discipline they've always known."

"Oh, I'm sure of that, Colonel. And I know they appreciate it all the more for knowing it will always be there," replied Hogan. "Can I go now?"

"Yes, dismissed, Hogan." The Kommandant turned on his heel and strode back to his office.

As Hogan returned to the barracks, Kinch, still loitering outside with Carter and Newkirk, jerked his head at Klink. "What's that about?"

"LeBeau's out of the cooler tomorrow," said Hogan. "Just in time to see Wolfert leave, with Anne-Marie."

Carter whistled. "That's a bit mean, isn't it?"

"Maybe. But I don't think it'll crush LeBeau quite as much as Wolfert expects." Hogan looked towards the Kommandant's quarters. "You know, I almost feel sorry for him."

"Sorry for that tosser?" protested Newkirk. "Do me a favour!"

Hogan gave him a grin. "Okay, he deserves what's coming. So let him have his little triumph. He thinks he's won, on all counts. Pretty soon he's going to find out how wrong he is about that."

He tilted his head, still gazing at the Kommandantur, as if trying to see past the walls.

"I wonder if he'll ever find out just how badly he lost," he murmured. "Or how long ago."


	21. Chapter 21

"Well, look what the cat dragged in. Did Wolfert give you the heave-ho, then?" Newkirk dropped from his bunk, and cast a severe eye on the man who had just slipped into the barracks in the grey light of dawn.

Addison shrugged. "He's leaving this morning. Doesn't need a cook any more. Schultz is meant to drive me back to Hammelburg after roll call, but I told him not to bother."

"Hey, what was it like, sleeping in Gruber's quarters?" said Carter, as he wriggled his shoulders into his coverall.

"Not bad. Not as nice as Klink's," replied Addison. "Better than he deserves." He turned quickly towards his bunk in the corner, but Hogan, coming out of his office, caught the irrepressible smirk on his lips.

"What did you do?" he asked.

"Nothing much." Addison started undoing the buttons on his shirt, preparatory to changing back into his uniform. "If Gruber ever moves his chest of drawers, he'll find Kilroy on the wall behind it."

"That's nothing."

"And a drawing of Hitler without his pants, and a couple of other things," Addison went on. "I got pretty bored last night."

Hogan grinned. "Okay. But what did you do that was bad?"

Under the cover of the men's laughter, the door opened again. Carter gave a shout, and pounced on the new arrival. "Hey, Louis! Welcome back!"

A clamour of greetings broke out, modifying into complaints as Schultz entered in LeBeau's wake. "Roll call! Everybody, _raus_."

"Yeah, Schultz, in a minute," said Hogan.

"No, you must fall out now, Colonel Hogan," insisted Schultz. "Already it is past time for roll call."

"Okay, if you say so." Hogan glanced over his shoulder. "Addison, don't bother changing, there's not enough time. If Klink notices you're out of uniform, Schultz will just have to come up with some kind of explanation for it."

Schultz closed his eyes, and sighed. "Two minutes. Not a second longer."

LeBeau scarcely waited for the door to close behind him, before he spoke. "Did you get it?"

"We did," replied Hogan. "By now, our people in London will have stopped asking each other how the hell they could have gotten such a bad termite infestation, and started taking steps to eradicate the problem."

"How long do you think it'll take for word to get back?" asked Kinch.

"To us? We may never hear how it ends." Hogan folded his arms. "Something this sensitive, London won't risk sending any information by radio unless it's vitally important we know about it. As for how soon Wolfert gets word, that depends on what kind of information channels he has. Could be weeks, could be months. Or if Himmler's got some of his agents in the right places, he could find out before Wolfert does. Either way, once the news reaches Hitler, it's over for our friend the general."

A momentary hush fell across the barracks, as each man considered what this would mean for one person in particular. But LeBeau squared his shoulders, and lifted his chin. "She will be all right," he said resolutely.

For a few seconds longer, nobody spoke. Then Hogan clapped LeBeau on the shoulder. "Yeah. She'll make it. Okay, everyone out for roll call."

Wolfert's staff car was standing at the corner of the Kommandantur, close to Klink's private quarters. As the prisoners straggled out of the barracks, the driver finished securing the baggage on the roof of the car; and while Schultz was counting his way along the rank, the general appeared, escorting his interpreter with tender care.

Louis barely glanced at her, with no sign of his inner turmoil; and she didn't look his way at all.

The driver opened the door, but Wolfert would not allow anyone but himself to hand her into the car, and to find the perfect position for the cushion which would support her injured arm. Only once he was satisfied did he turn to Klink, with a few parting words. Then as he walked around to the other side of his car, his gaze found LeBeau, standing among his fellow prisoners. Their eyes met; Wolfert smiled slightly, and raised his hand in a brief salute, a gracious acknowledgement of a defeated rival.

He got in beside her. The driver took his place, and put the staff car into motion, and within a minute, it had rolled through the gate and disappeared from sight.

"Well, I guess that's that," remarked Carter. "What happens now, Colonel?"

"Same as always," replied Hogan. "We start work on the next assignment. Right, LeBeau?"

"Right, _mon Colonel_." It wasn't easy for LeBeau to speak cheerfully; but as he glanced around at his friends, from Newkirk's affectionate grin to the vaguely anxious look in Carter's eyes, then to Kinch, whose steady smile held all the sympathy he wouldn't say aloud, he knew they understood. He even found a smile of his own, in answer to Hogan's searching gaze.

No matter how hard it was, he had to let her go. There was work to do.

For the next few weeks, work occupied almost every waking minute. Somehow, LeBeau found himself included in almost every mission, as if Hogan had decided to make sure there was no time left for brooding, or dreaming of what might have been, or imagining what might lie ahead. But he had occasional quiet moments, and at those times his thoughts turned to Claire.

It was so simple now, and so natural, to think of her as Claire. It had been almost the last word she had said to him, and he was quite certain she wanted him to remember her by a name which held none of the sense of betrayal and grief so closely associated, in his mind, with Anne-Marie. But he kept it to himself. It was her own secret, not to be shared. In any case, nobody ever mentioned her, once she was gone.

As Hogan had surmised, little information came back about the disruption of Project Termite. He guessed, from some of the messages relayed back and forth, that the Underground had been tasked with identifying and neutralising Wolfert's spies in the other POW camps, but whatever action was being taken outside Germany was no longer the concern of the Stalag 13 operation. Those hints, however, were enough to set LeBeau's nerves jangling. Enough time had passed for the news to start filtering back to Germany that Wolfert's sinister network was unravelling; enough time for the general's rising star to begin its meteoric plunge back to earth.

There was no way of knowing for sure. So Louis did the only thing he could; he prepared for the next mission. She would expect that of him.

* * *

"Are you sure you've got enough dynamite there, Andrew?" asked Newkirk, regarding the modest bundle Carter was stuffing casually into a rucksack. "You don't want to skimp on it."

Carter sniffed. "Do I tell you how to pick pockets? Well, don't tell me how to blow up trains. The fifth car from the front is loaded with high explosives. One little blast right underneath that car, and the whole lot will go up like it's the fourth of July."

"Oh, well, if you're sure," replied Newkirk. "You don't think it's a bit unsporting, using their own explosives?"

"Maybe, but at least it's economical," said Hogan, who had just come down the ladder from the barracks. "You know how much dynamite we went through last month? Remember, waste not, want not."

"Yeah, and a penny saved is a penny earned," added Carter. "Not that you can wreck a train with pennies - though, you know, I heard if you put a penny on the railway line..."

Newkirk shook his head. "It doesn't work. I tried it a few times, when I was a lad, and I ended up with nothing but a pocket full of bent coppers. LeBeau, you ready to go?"

"I was ready half an hour ago," said LeBeau. "In fact, I could have gone out and had the job done while you and Carter were arguing."

"We're not arguing, we're just discussing..."

"Well, you can discuss on your way to the target," interrupted Hogan. "It's time to go, if you want to catch that train."

"Righto, sir," Newkirk gave Carter a friendly shove towards the tunnel leading to the emergency exit. LeBeau followed; Hogan, bringing up the rear, kept his eyes on the little Frenchman.

LeBeau didn't know it yet; but it was now more than a week since, contrary all to expectations, some information had arrived at Stalag 13. Kinch had been listening in when the Kommandant received a telephone call from his immediate superior. General Burkhalter, intelligent enough to be guarded in his choice of words, had found as always that with Klink it was necessary to spell things out.

"The Gestapo will be paying you a visit, Klink. They are preparing a dossier on an SS officer, General Wolfert. Under no circumstances are you to admit he was ever at Stalag 13, even if he was. Is that clear?"

"Oh, it couldn't be clearer, sir. With your permission, may I ask what this is about?"

"No, you may not."

"Of course not. It's just that, if you are asking me to keep information from the Gestapo..."

"I am not asking you, Klink, I am ordering you. As far as we are concerned, General Wolfert never went to any prisoner of war camp. Whatever kind of treason he has been involved in, we had nothing to do with it. Do you understand?"

"I understand, _Herr General_. And you can rely on me, I won't say a word."

The details, though sketchy, were plain enough. The hammer had come down on Wolfert. Without much hope, Hogan had set Kinch to making cautious enquiries, seeking any intelligence that might shed light on the fate of the general's interpreter.

So far, Hogan hadn't told LeBeau; but he knew he couldn't keep it quiet for long. Once this mission was over, it would be time to break the news.

At the foot of the ladder which ascended to ground level outside camp, there was a brief pause while Hogan, as always, used the periscope to check whether it was safe. "No patrols," he murmured. "Looks all clear. Okay, get going, and good luck."

Newkirk started up the ladder, but before he reached the third rung, a call rang along the tunnel. "Hold it!"

"What's up, Kinch?" demanded Hogan sharply.

Kinch had run all the way from the radio room, and was slightly out of breath. "Just got a message on the radio, from the Underground at Hammelburg," he panted. "Urgent."

"Blimey, they're not after us to call it off, are they?" Newkirk dropped off the ladder, with an impatient sigh.

"No, the mission's fine. But Max says he needs someone from here to meet him at the old forestry hut near the Aalenau Bridge, at twenty-three hundred hours." Kinch's eyes caught the glimmer of the lamplight, as he looked at Hogan. "I confirmed we'd have someone there."

"Did he say what it was about?" asked Hogan.

"He gave me one word," replied Kinch. "Kilmarnock."

A shiver of excitement, like an electrical discharge, rippled through the group. Every one of them remembered which agent had used the name of a Scottish town as her recognition code. Max could not have heard it from anyone but her.

"Kinch, I need you to go with Carter and Newkirk," said Hogan at last. "Can you be ready in ten minutes?"

"Five, Colonel." And Kinch went at once, while behind him a duet of exclamatory delight broke out. Carter looked about ready to start dancing, and even Newkirk's customary cynicism had been elbowed aside by pure joy at the unexpected tidings.

LeBeau didn't say a word. His eyes followed Kinch to the curve of the tunnel, then he turned to Hogan; dazed, uncertain, afraid to believe.

Hogan regarded him gravely for a moment. "Are you okay, LeBeau?"

Unable to speak, LeBeau nodded slowly. There was a reassuring gleam in Hogan's eyes; his own dimmed momentarily. It seemed impossible; but the colonel believed it, and maybe that would be enough to go on with, until he saw her again.

With that thought, Louis found his voice: "More than okay, _mon Colonel_. I don't think I've ever been better."

Hogan smiled. "Then let's go and bring her home."

* * *

_Note: "Kilroy was here" - a popular slogan which appeared as graffiti wherever American servicemen went during World War 2._


End file.
